


As We Were Born To Be

by A_Dubious_Dream



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Timelines, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating with Solas, Comedy, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Elf-Blooded, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Horrible attempts at romantic writing, Internal Monologue, Like omg really bad, Mages and Templars, NSFW, Reavers - Freeform, Self-Worth Issues, Slight AU/Canon Divergence, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Solas Being Solas, Tantra, Triggers, fear of failure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6870667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Dubious_Dream/pseuds/A_Dubious_Dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sendra Lavellan is young and unaccustomed to the world outside her oft-traveled forest paths and trade camps surrounding the village of Wycome. Though eager to see what the lands of Thedas have to offer, when she is sent alone by her clan to the village of Haven to spy upon arguably the most important meeting in recent history, she is caught in between a war of mages and their former Templar guards that she can not ignore. As death and ruin swallow the lives around her, she meets another elf, a lone mercenary named Vaalen, who offers to guide her to the temple and keep her safe until she can return home and lead her people from harm. But this seemingly world-wise, yet noble soldier holds a tragic history, and it isn't long before demons, both figurative and literal, come forth to irrevocably set the two of them on a path with the very gods who seek to rip apart the veil between the world of spirits and the living. </p><p>Torn between helping Vaalen escape from the burning rage and thirst for power driving his vengeance to new heights, and exploring her feelings for Solas, a mage who offers a chance to discover the deepest, darkest truths behind herself and her people, Sendra must decide- which man is worth saving?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet Vaalen, a tall, lean elven-looking warrior with ashen blonde hair and a sarcastic mouth. Somewhere outside of a small village in Ferelden's southlands, six months before the events of the Conclave, this sets the tone for his character, how he thinks and how he acts, how he feels and responds to challenge, and gives foreshadowing to the type of personal development that mark his turbid integration in to the Inquisition in later chapters.
> 
> \--This is my very first attempt at DA:I fanfiction. As such, I can not thank you enough for taking the time to read what I've put down, even if only for a few lines. The messages of support and kindness mean the world, and is what pushes me to not only write, but try to continue to get better. I've done my best to make it as readable and entertaining as possible, but that doesn't mean there isn't plenty of room for edits and revisions. I welcome comments and feedback, especially with regards to use of the elvhen language.--
> 
> I would also like to thank the Dragon Age wikia...you are the based god of our nerdy fandom. Without you, I would be but a plebian sniveling at the soles of factual inadequacy. May your fact-checking power never dull.
> 
> Music that inspired this chapter--  
> Bad Moon Rising by Voices in Your Head (feat. Avi Kaplan) (SERIOUSLY, GO LISTEN TO THIS AND IMAGINE IT FOR A DAI STORY. OMG FANGASM)

### Prologue

##### 13th of Ferventis

##### 9:40 Dragon

_The world isn’t a nice place, generally speaking._

The thought hung for a moment, a single floating entity amidst the otherwise hollow expanse of his consciousness. It wasn’t that the statement was particularly profound or new to Vaalen. In fact, it always seemed like, at least to himself, that he was the one pegged to serve as the public reminder of this universal truth by the cosmos. Sure, others could argue he was also the one who also played more than a small part in putting himself in the worst of harm’s way to begin with, tending to instigate altercations wherever he went; but, he was quick to point out, such disputes were always born of some initial injustice he had hoped to end, one which no one else ever seemed to be attending to. Vaalen remembered trying to charm his way out of further trouble after one such scrape, attempting to justify his actions with, “What blame can really befall a man who simply wants to do what he thinks is the right thing? Isn’t that what the Chantry does every day?” 

That line of reasoning had, of course, ended up not sitting so well with others. People got defensive, especially when the Chantry was bantered around, and especially when it was an elf doing the bantering. “As if you’re anything like the Chantry…” The response thrown back in his face was quick and decisive, levied with a biting tone of hatred that was meant to condemn as well as mock. Though he had tried to shrug it off in the moment, the more time had passed, the more opportunity he had had to reflect on those words, and the worse the truth became- they were right, even more than they knew.

_BOOM- Crruunncchh._

The shock of the noise forced Vaalen to suddenly try to adjust to his darkened surroundings. As his consciousness slowly began to come back in to the fore, he noticed that the world was inexplicably dark, and it seemed to be at least a bit more off balance than his tastes preferred. It was hard to tell which way was which, and he could feel his mind still floating wearily on the precipice of unconsciousness and clouded stupor. Sounds and voices filled his ears while his feet clumsily searched for stable purchase underneath wobbling knees. Though still ringing, his ears gradually became aware of the heavy clunking and scuffling of wooden seats, the shouts and jeers of at least two dozen men, and something from a loud Nevarran woman yelling about coinage and odds. He noted that, according to her ratios, whoever the “elf fairy” was did not seem to be much of a favorite in whatever these people were betting on. Faintly, the slightest whiffs of thick warm ale and cold cider touched his palette, but were quickly washed away by the overpowering, coppery tang of blood wafting in on ragged gasps of his lungs. 

_THUD. CRACK._

_Oh…was that…my body? Are those my…my bones?_ With a sickening realization, Vaalen began to feel nauseous imagining how he’d feel the next day if what he was hearing matched what was really happening to him, followed shortly by a growing worry that there might not be a tomorrow if such attacks persisted. Meanwhile, the crowd roared its constant approval of such violence. Vaalen felt his hands fly to his sides as the force of the last impact sent his body almost pirouetting away from the point of contact of some tremendous force to his face. Mercifully, he was largely numb by now, and much of what he could discern was through a foggy haze that filtered the worst news about his external (and internal) condition until later. Without a way to see, his hands groped blindly through the air as he toppled to his left, still half spinning. The ground came racing up to meet him and his body absorbed the fall as gracefully as a nug in heels.

Without thinking and still blinded, he instinctively rolled to his left. The act was an old and oft-rehearsed trick, born of experience- and costly mistake- in too many awkward scuffles and close quarters altercations. Using the last of the awkward momentum he had from spinning in his fall, he repositioned his now prone frame a foot further away from his landing site as casually as a pantry chef might flip a pancake. Just in time, a huge, heavy object came slamming down a few inches from where his head had been, kicking up dust and dirt, and sending a shockwave that reverberated through Vaalen’s very core. Even blinded, he registered the size of the falling object to be massive.

“Why avoid my boot? You only extend your pain that much longer, worm,” came a deep, heavy male voice that boomed with confident malice. “Now you just lay there like a good little shit and let me wipe my heel clean of you with this next one.” Members of the audience chimed in with shouts of support for the aggressor. Some even offered a chant of “shit face” in a slow, one-two count. Someone else tossed a thick, slimey substance that splattered across the side of Vaalen’s face with a wet smack. The crowd burst in to laughter.

 _Why am I here again?_ Vaalen thought, his world still dark, barely registering what the obviously huge individual towering above him was saying, or the actions of the crowd. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember, but desperately knew that he wanted to. Somewhere between the fourth blow to the head and his left hand getting broken, that particular piece of sensemaking had abandoned ship like so much of the blood in his face. He knew it had something to do with…someone…but the details…the details were currently escaping him like the contents of his bowels threatened to do at any moment. _What could it be?_ Vaalen thought as he tried to strain his rattled memory. He wanted to know, he wanted to remember, so that he could begin to piece back together where he was and how he found himself in such a predicament. _Come on, idiot…focus…_ he thought, pushing himself to concentrate harder. Suddenly, visions of beautiful female faces jumped in to his mind. In his half-delirious state, Vaalen briefly wondered if he hadn’t crossed to some otherworldly paradise beyond death, if that last foot-fall didn’t actually make purchase with his head and splatter his insides across the dirt like refuse from an overturned waste bin. The bewilderment passed, however, as he realized that he recognized each woman.

 _Oh...not again..._ Vaalen couldn’t help but smile to himself with the thought. _You stupid fool,_ he half-heartedly scolded himself mentally as the realization of what was going on caught up with him. _Here you are again…you saw a great ass, opened your mouth, and within ten minutes you’re unsure of what’s up and what’s down. Whoever she is, she’s probably not even watching this… just like last time._ The thought struck a chord of resentment, and Vaalen’s mind stopped on one particular girl’s face as it leapt to the fore. Ah yes, ‘last time’. ‘Last time’ had been Clairette, a beautiful little Orlesian girl that put a blush on Vaalen’s face with just her mischievous smile alone, even before he knew about her physical appetites. Sadly, Clairette was not one to suffer an affair for long, growing bored simply with the passage of an hour it had seemed. Even though Vaalen had seemed exotic at first, her attention quickly wandered. When the wind blew to fairer seas, she saw herself off, right in to the arms of a second lieutenant in the Orlesian cavalry no less. Naturally, the man couldn’t have his honor sullied if people thought she was still with Vaalen, some two-bit, good for nothing knife-ear. So he did what any reasonable and career-minded gentleman of the state would do and rounded up half a dozen of his drunken comrades to pay Vaalen a late-night visit. _Fun times…_ Vaalen sourly reminisced. Quickly, he pushed her image aside and tried to move on to the faces of the other girls in his mind, looking for one that might offer more immediate explication.

Each face spun through his mind like a mobile of memories, playing a short snippet of a smile or laugh that each girl had offered at one his sarcastic jokes, or bumbled attempts to play the dashing charmer. All of them were past conquests, in one form or another. Some lovers, some more, some just acquaintances who he’d grown close to, and would certainly have enjoyed a fair bit of _tête-à-tête_ if given the chance. Alas, discerning the exact one for which his current set of affairs was thus responsible was proving difficult. His current set of affairs…he’d forgotten what he was involved in while his mind floated on women. A common problem for Vaalen. _Oh yeah, I should roll again._

Quickly he spun his body over to the left again, and again a tremendous force came slamming down barely a second later where he had just been. The crowd burst out with cheers of excitement and laughter, some of them now taking turns to mock the huge man who had twice missed a seemingly easy finisher. 

“Come on Kaarasvon, I thought you Qunari were supposed to be some battle-hardened ass chewers, not tap-dancing chantry maids!” came a jeer from a noticeably younger spectator, followed by a slurred attempt to corroborate by two or three other patrons that never managed more than half-spoken gargles and belches. The big man let out an audible growl of anger and shouted something in Qunlat with such force the crowd took a moment to quiet itself in shock before the inebriation and tumult of the moment spurred them on again to levy another round of insults and proclamations to see more blood.

Back in his mind, however, Vaalen was too preoccupied to join in their jeering. He was still working through the list of potential vixens that was costing him more than a slight bit of public humiliation and pain, not to mention some serious risk if the shockwaves from those boot stomps were to be believed. Brunettes, blondes, red-heads, all came whirring past in a line of smiles, winks and lip-bites. While the act of perusing his list of acquaintances was certainly bringing him a certain degree of pleasure, he reminded himself that each time he had genuinely meant for it to be the last one. Or at least, that was what he had told himself the last six or seven times. _Otherwise, I can’t keep trying to remember the right name, birthday and preference of food, not to mention who’s allergic to flowers and who’s not! It’s just getting to be too much work…_ The crude joke made Vaalen smile to himself for a moment, but it quickly passed. _You shit artist,_ he told himself with a wearying sigh. _This wouldn’t take so long if you actually knew what you were looking for IN a woman, not what you were looking AT._ The truth bit deep, and he stopped his capricious smirking. As much as he had enjoyed himself thoroughly- and often- with his many liaisons, he was still none the less alone and in a pool of his own blood here on his back in the dirt. To make matters worse, nothing was jogging his recollection, which could mean only one thing: Vaalen had only just met the girl.

 _Great. Off to a really good start with this new one, too. This is so worth it. I hope you’re proud of yourself Vaalen. Looks like we are just having the BEST of times swallowing mouthfuls of our own insides._ Vaalen’s self-deprecation and externalization brought him a small bit of comfort despite its biting truth, as he started to feel slightly less left out of the crowd currently taking turns kicking him to pieces verbally and physically. _If they are having so much fun with it, why shouldn’t I, right?_ he thought sarcastically. It also helped to ease the pangs of guilt growing inside of him. If she was new, than that meant he was yet again drawing in some poor girl only to see her played by his insatiable appetite, or to be played himself by one of hers. In either case, the effort to try to brush it all off like nothing was really lost for the affair was not one he wanted to face when he assumed he’d already have enough pains to nurse in the near future. The clairvoyance of the moment was one he hoped to remember when next he met her. 

Suddenly, two large hands with long, thick, meaty fingers clasped down on the back of his coat collar and jerked him to his feet from behind, jarring him from his mental wandering. Drawn upwards, his body elongated, and with sudden electrifying clarity it began to register the many contusions and breaks to his core. The pain rippled through Vaalen’s gut and set his skin afire as freshly cracked ribs strained to support his weight. The overwhelming ache of multiple broken fingers and knuckles in his left hand made his whole left arm seize up to the shoulder. Vaalen gasped for air to handle the sudden shock to his system, his right eye shooting open wide in flushed anguish. Light suddenly streamed in to his view, yellow and golden with the afternoon sun. He found himself standing outside, behind some type of large, single-story wooden building with a straw covered roof and brick chimney. Numerous small windows adorned the outside of the simple establishment, many of which were thrown open and filled with peering faces. As the world continued to slowly come in to more focus, he noticed the clear blue sky overheard and the beauty of the green lush leaves in the many branches of a large tree just above and off to his side. A quick glance behind him showed yet more trees, as well as a thick tide of foliage and underbrush stretching off and away like a wall of green and shadow. Taken in full, Vaalen presumed himself to be on the edge of a village along some type of southern forest. 

Around him, a crowd of motley villagers in drab, patchwork clothing had gathered, hollering through half-toothed grins and long-untrimmed facial hair- and the men didn’t look much better. Those hanging out of the windows of the building painted a similar picture of gross disinterest in hygiene or fashion in lieu of more functional working attire. A full-figured, fairly voluptuous human woman in her later years with long dark hair stood on a wooden chair in front of the crowd waving her hands back and forth and pointing, her gaudy bright red dress flashing to and fro as she collected coins, payment slips and scraps of valuables in a large purple sack. Vaalen immediately took her to be the mistress of the tavern. The crowd nearest to her pushed and shouted to place bets, wagering copper pieces like merchant princes at the Antivan docks, and she quickly and expertly gathered each one with a grace that belied hands well-practiced with such an activity. 

Abruptly, the view was blocked out and the light overhead obscured as a giant, bare-chested Qunari with dark blue skin leveled himself in front of Vaalen. Vaalen took a step back instinctively, finding he had to tilt his head upwards in order to match the man’s sneering expression. Narrowed brown eyes and a thick, boney, wide jaw coupled with a blunted nose and broad cheek bones gave the impression of a huge wrought-iron anvil in place of an actual face. His dark hair was pulled in to a short pony-tail behind his head, while the front of his skull was topped by a single jutting horn that could have found equal home atop an adult Gurn given its massive size. The horn’s tip came wrapped in several layers of plated steel which Vaalen wasn’t sure was for ornamentation or to enhance the lethal power of the implement- or both. The man’s shoulders were easily twice that of Vaalen’s own, and the musculature of his neck, arms and chest seemed to be all but erupting from his skin in a gross display of excess strength. Vaalen’s nose barely reached the crest of the man’s protruding abdominals, which, Vaalen noted, seemed like a set of studded armor disguised as flesh. He was sure with how thick the muscles were, the allusion probably wasn’t too far from the truth. _I’ve got to figure out this guy’s training regimen…_ he quipped to himself with envy.

“Hello _cupcake_ ,” the giant said pointedly as he leaned down slightly in to Vaalen’s bloodied face, a broad smile rolling across his lips. “Glad to see you’re back on your feet. You’re not looking so good, though. At least you have practice scurrying around like a little bug on the ground under the heels of bigger men, or I’m sure you’d look much, much worse. But, that’s not very becoming of a good fight now is it? Look, these people want a real brawl, and they don’t seem to be getting it. Why don’t we have this out like real warriors for the sake of the crowd, hmm? I promise when I pop your skull clean off your shoulders, it will look especially thrilling.” At this, he beamed a huge, menacing smile, and stood back up to his full height before turning to the crowd. Vaalen watched as the Qunari walked a few steps towards the closest throng of onlookers with his arms outstretched, as if to invite them to cheer. _Massive…_ was the only thought his brain could formulate at the sight. That was the right word. Vaalen was tall by the standards of almost any race, standing over six and a half feet at his crown, but the man in front of him was a true giant. He had to be nearing eight feet high before the horn, and at least half of that wide. The giant’s posture coupled with large frame and impressive physique sent several female passer-bys in to fits of squealing excitement as he swept his huge palms in their direction. The crowd shouted its approval along with bellows of “Well get on with it!” and “I want to see his eyes go flying!” to goad their champion in to action. 

Remembering himself, Vaalen shook his head to regain his composure. “Oh…cupcake. I called you that didn’t I? I did. I called you cupcake,” Vaalen suddenly replied in a sheepish tone, putting his right hand to his chin and mimicking a pensive pose, as if remembering the offense. In truth, he had no idea of what he’d really said to make the big man so mad, but he knew that ‘cupcake’ was probably a good start. The Qunari turned to Vaalen again slowly, half-surprised and half-angry that he was still getting lip out of what looked like a walking corpse. “Yea, cupcake. That’s one of my favorite insults. I love using that phrase. I must have said it to you in a fit of jest or anger. That’s why you brought it up to me in retort. A bit of giving me my own medicine?” Vaalen asked, almost rhetorically.

The huge Qunari blinked for a moment in surprise, as if he couldn’t process what the smaller man had just said. An awkward moment passed in silence as he stood there, an angry and stupefied look on his face, the crowd hushed in eager anticipation to see his reaction. Then his complexion relaxed and he smiled, bursting out in a deep, hearty laugh. “Hah! You don’t remember do you!” He turned back to the crowd briefly, pointing to Vaalen. “This little shitface doesn’t remember!” The crowd joined in with his laughter at this as he turned back to face Vaalen. “I knocked you so silly you forgot what you said even ten minutes ago!” The Qunari threw back his head and let out another set of deep, barrel-chested laughter, putting his hands to his stomach and making a show of the scene. The crowd laughed all the harder, and a few of the audience members even fell over one another in raucous outbursts, spilling beer in to the arena. Then, as quickly as he started, he ceased and leveled his gaze straight at Vaalen, the smile dropping from his lips, replaced with a stare so stern Vaalen felt as if he were being stabbed just by looking at it. The crowd immediately hushed itself in fear as the larger warrior’s mood shifted abruptly, a flurry of worried faces spreading across the crowd. One older man in the back kept laughing hysterically before someone jabbed him in the ribs with a yelp to shut up. Even the tavernkeep stopped her hawking of bets and dropped her large purple sack to listen, twisting cautiously on the stool upon which she stood. With a voice like cold, sharpened steel, the Qunari growled “Yes, you did. You did call me cupcake, _cupcake._ ” The last word seemed to carry enough implicit rage in the tone Vaalen almost felt like he needed to dodge the syllables as they carried on the wind.

Instead, he averted his gaze quickly to the ground and smiled timidly. “Ok, look, about that…” he began meekly, searching for the right words to say. “What I meant to say was that you- “Vaalen looked back up, his eyes beginning to flit slightly to the subset of the crowd just behind the other man, searching. “-you’re not a cupcake.”

The big man smiled slightly, and crossed his arms in a confident manner.

“I misspoke, and I shouldn’t have said that. That was wrong.”

“Oh I don’t want to hear this driveling nugshit!” someone shouted from the crowd, breaking its collective silence. “He’s just trying to buy his way out of trouble! Knock his brains around some, or pull his tongue out his arse!” came another outburst from the audience, followed by a score of others shouting in agreement. Soon the spectators sailed in complaints and boos that their kill was being delayed. Sensing that her already bulging purple bag wasn’t likely to get much fatter with one competitor trying to bargain his way out, the tavern matron in red joined in and shouted to the Qunari in a thick Nevarran accent, “Make it quick already! Let’s have a show, no?” The big man smiled wider and began to walk towards Vaalen slowly and confidently. Clearly he was enjoying the groveling, but the assured and steady strides towards his prey indicated he didn’t intend to let this little game go on much longer, and was more than happy to oblige the whim of the crowd.

Vaalen began to feel a twinge of panic. His left arm was still hanging rigidly to his side, locked in agonizing pain, while his left eye had not yet gained any sort of visibility. This was common in fights with fists, since most fighters practiced their heavier punches with their right hands. Through too many such bouts, Vaalen had long ago realized that it tended to be that if he took a heavy blow, it came from the other person’s right, meaning his left served as the cushioning for their knuckles. While Vaalen still couldn’t remember the exact circumstances that precipitated a useless left hand and eye, it was good evidence about which side of the bigger man to expect the next volley of hurt to come from, and a strong vote against further attempts to stand up to the bigger opponent without a better plan than straight fisticuffs.

 _And shit, he said it’s only been ten minutes since I pissed him off?_ Vaalen thought. _He did all this damage in ten minutes to me?_ The panic worsened, and Vaalen blinked, desperately trying to stifle the urge to backstep or cast his gaze to either side in a rushed attempt to escape. No, he had to maintain composure. He had to maintain his ground, and keep his one good eye looking as much like it was locked on the larger man’s own gloating stare as much as possible while still reading the crowd behind carefully. Otherwise, the illusion would be broken and the attack would simply come all the sooner if the giant sensed flight was a possibility. Vaalen had to keep the big man convinced that he was just going to try to talk his way out of this- a strategy both knew wasn’t going to work, but one he had to bluff with. 

_Come on, come on, come on- Wait._

_Ah…found one…_

“What I should have said,” Vaalen continued, slightly straightening his posture and readying himself on the balls of his feet, “is that you are a ‘Vint-sucking _basra_ of a cupcake.” 

The huge Qunari stopped dead in his tracks mid-stride, arms still folded. His jaw came ajar slightly, and for the second time in as many minutes, he looked both enraged and stupefied. The words had found purchase. This time though, there came no show of laughter afterwards. Instead, the big Qunari clamped his jaw shut after a moment and narrowed his eyes to slits. 

“The cornered little dog levies one last bite before he goes down,” said the huge man angrily. 

_Damn, he didn’t take the bait. It just pissed him off worse,_ Vaalen thought, deflated. He had hoped the other man would have become so incensed by the remarks that he would have simply charged blindly in anger, heedless of Vaalen’s lingering, albeit limited, potential to counter. Instead, it looked like Vaalen had only made his current approval with the big fighter plummet further. The Qunari was too well disciplined for such a reckless outburst, and Vaalen cursed himself for not being better at insults in Qunlat that could have triggered the desired response, and for also thinking that such a plan would ever have worked regardless of what he said in the first place. _He’s not some mead-addled Ferelden farm flunky or Orlesian tart with mommy issues, you can’t pull grade B material on a trained juggernaut like this guy. You knew better,_ Vaalen chided himself again. _Oh well, I guess we do this the hard way…it’s too late to back out now._ Just because the beast didn’t charge didn’t mean the fight was over just yet.

The Qunari put one heavy boot down in front of himself, and turned to the side, keeping his gaze on Vaalen, getting himself in to a stance reminiscent of someone readying themselves for a fencing match. Vaalen sensed instantly this was a well-refined maneuver that preluded attack. The beast was readying its assault. Visions of the dark, black, steel-tipped horn racing toward him any second put Vaalen’s feet to action first, and he suddenly vaulted toward the big man, legs pumping. The giant read the change in tactics and brought his hands up to catch Vaalen’s body in a grapple, presumably to either throw or pin him mercilessly, but the smaller man quickly spun himself abruptly to the right with a reverse twisting motion, shifting his weight to his planted right foot. Vaalen’s momentum carried him through, and he found himself facing the Qunari on the larger man’s left side while sliding backwards in the dust. With a grunt of exertion followed by a clenching of teeth as his cracked ribs vibrated with the sudden twisting and running, Vaalen relaunched himself at his opponent from the new side angle.

The bigger warrior made another quick read, and raised his left arm up in a bent fashion, likely hoping to drop the elbow straight down on Vaalen’s head, or whichever readily squishable part it could make purchase with. While Vaalen may not have remembered what transpired earlier that gave the giant the advantage, he respected the Qunari for having done so much hurt to him in so short a time, and instinct screamed that this move was a trap by a cunning opponent. Ordinarily, against a less seasoned opponent, dodging to the giant’s right would have allowed the elbow to miss, brought Vaalen directly in front of the other fighter, and given a chance to counter to the head or body as the momentum of the missed attack carried the attacker’s body down in to Vaalen’s waiting strikes. However, if the Qunari was as good as Vaalen was assuming, being in front of him was not where he wanted to be, and Vaalen doubted the other man’s right hand or tree trunk sized legs would stay idle for long. 

A second option may have been to go behind the huge brute to land several blows to the kidneys, or kick the back of the legs out to trip the bigger man up, but these offered little in the way of follow up moves Vaalen felt he truly had the strength for. Once the giant was on the ground, what did he really hope to accomplish? Wrestle something that looked like it could crush a dragon skull between its glutes in the dirt? No, there was really only one choice left. 

It was time for a beer.

Racing toward the huge Qunari, Vaalen extended his right hand out to his side, snatching a thick dwarven mug one of the patrons was holding while watching the fight. The man jerked back in surprise with a “Hey!” as Vaalen clamped down tight on the top and yanked it from his grasp while running by. He had been looking for someone, anyone, in the crowd, with a useful tool or implement he could confiscate for the fight. When no one readily offered a pitchfork or blade in view, Vaalen had found his next best opportunity in a well-made dwarven ale mug. Deftly turning it over to grip the handle Vaalen lifted himself off his feet, and went airborne, feet first and low through the air. Still trying to register that his opponent had grabbed a beer mug mid-fight, and why he would do so, the Qunari carried through with his dropped elbow attack without thinking. For the third time, a look of stupefied shock scrawled across his face as the huge elbow just missed Vaalen passing underneath it. With all of his weight and strength, Vaalen connected to the side of the larger man’s left knee with his feet and kicked out for all he was worth. A wet popping noise followed by a sickening crack and the huge giant fell screaming to the ground, clutching at his leg.

The brute just missed crushing Vaalen under his weight as he collapsed, and the smaller fighter had to roll away quickly, before pushing himself back to his feet. He knew he had to act fast, before the shock of what happened and the pain faded in the bigger man, and was replaced by the rage of being critically wounded. It was likely the giant wouldn’t walk again without some very powerful magics, but Vaalen wasn’t going to take a chance. Being skewered on a large horn outside a tavern didn’t seem an appealing way to go. Willing himself through his own blinding pain, Vaalen took a step forward and drove the lip of the stein upward in a wide arc from below against the bottom of the screaming Qunari’s jaw. Being dwarven, the stein wasn’t made from simple clay, wood or glass, but rather hewn from a combination of heat-treated wood and iron ore. In effect, like many things dwarven, it was multi-purpose as both a dispenser of ale and a lethal mace-like weapon. The Qunari’s mouth slammed shut as the dwarven metal and wood splintered, his teeth cracking together and digging in to his wagging tongue with a wet crunch. Blood flew and the crowd shouted in surprise. The quick-thinking tavernkeeper saw the shifting winds of the fight and spun on her heels back to the crowd, throwing wide her bag of bets again and urging on a new round. In a moment, people began to shout and push, scream and yell, while others, swayed by this eruption of violence from the smaller and seemingly outmatched elf, started to chant “shit face” again, this time with an almost reverent and actually appraising tone.

Vaalen couldn’t hear any of them, however. He was too focused, too raw, too drawn in to the moment. A lapse in judgement, a miss of an opportunity, and he knew he’d be dealing with one very large and wounded animal. In short, one very angry Qunari. Every fiber of his consciousness urged him to kill, and he yearned to see the deed done. As shards of the beer stein began to crack and fall away, Vaalen brought it up high and dropped it down hard directly against the Qunari’s broad skull on the left temple. The force of the impact ricocheted up Vaalen’s arm, and he almost staggered back at how hard the man’s skull really was. What was left of the dwarven cup exploded in to smaller shards and sprayed across the larger man’s face and Vaalen’s hand. All that was left was the thick metal ring of the handle still clenched in Vaalen’s fist, and a few ragged, bloodied pieces clinging to the edges. 

And yet the huge man didn’t fall. Even with a shattered left knee and blood now spurting from a ruptured crack next to his left eye, the Qunari remained kneeling on his one good leg, looking up at Vaalen with clenched, blood covered lips. _Andraste’s balls he’s tough,_ Vaalen grimaced. But the larger warrior’s eyes betrayed his true condition, and Vaalen noted they were quickly turning listless and confused. With a flush of relief, the smaller elf realized the fight was finally over, and he redoubled his strength for one more blow, bringing himself to raise the handle again as high as he could on the last reserves of his energy. He raised the handle of the beer mug above his head to deliver the _coup de grâce,_ but suddenly paused as his eyes caught the dazed, lost look on the huge man’s face. 

He felt sorry for him. He felt sorry for himself, too, with all the pain he was in, but mostly for the big Qunari. Vaalen knew he should end his misery. Life as a permanently crippled and potentially brain-damaged vagrant, stripped off his purpose in the eyes of the Qun was no life indeed. But why had this happened? He still didn’t remember what the two of them had said that brought them to this, and Vaalen was sorry that now one of them wasn’t going to walk away from it. He was killing someone without any recollection as to why. This other man was clearly an impressive specimen of a warrior, worthy of a position in any company or field army, and Vaalen very much doubted he particularly deserved the death awaiting him here of all places- outside of some forsaken backwater village far from his home, family, friends.

Vaalen felt overcome by a wave of sadness and guilt at the thought. There was no longer a happy resolution to the situation. Even conceding was no longer a real option. Vaalen had once again acted too abruptly. Images and voices began to gnaw at his thoughts, memories of people and places where he’d been forced to make this same type of decision before. People he’d failed, people he’d hurt, people he’d been forced to kill. The Qunari wasn’t the first to suffer from Vaalen’s mistakes, just like whatever girl he was again attempting to start all over with that caused this whole mess. In poignant clarity, he could see the seemingly endless cycle stretching away behind and in front of him, the piles of hopes, dreams and lives of others he was destined to ruin with his short-sighted selfishness. Images of the girls whose hearts he’d broken (or who had broken his) began to spin by in his mind again, this time interspersed with others, more personal and less romantic. Family, friends, comrades, enemies, all of them stopping for a brief moment in his mind’s eye to offer a smile or frown, a glancing gesture or a horrified final expression, each a time he tried to stand up and do the right thing. But it always ended the same way. It always ended _this_ way. He ended up hurting someone who didn’t deserve it because... 

_Because..._

Vaalen’s lips twisted in to an anguished, clenched grimace. His jaw tightened and his chest welled before letting forth an angry, guttural scream that broke forth from his lips in a raw and defeated cry. The hard metal handle of the stein came flying down on the Qunari’s temple again with a sudden, wrenching slam.

_The world isn’t a nice place, generally speaking._

##### An hour later

“Well, after all of the coin you won me with that little show outside, and your surprising victory, I suppose I can take some of it to be room rent for you…but only for one night! Besides, if you wander out there and die, I’m liable to have to answer too many questions. Especially if a patrol finds you. Oh my no…we can’t have that, no no no…” 

The tavern keep applied another swab of a thick, tar-like resin to Vaalen’s swollen left eye, the concoction burning like raw lyrium against his skin. She dobbed it on with the hem of her dress and smeared it around gingerly, careful to also wipe away some of the oozing blood from where she’d lanced a few minutes earlier to ease the swelling. Thankfully, once the inflammation had subsided, Vaalen realized the eye itself could still see now that it wasn’t obscured by his collapsed eyebrow, easing his worries that he would have to start wearing an eye patch. Though he wasn’t quite the young, dashing twenty year old he once was, that didn’t mean he didn’t still have some vanity, even covered in blood, dirt and shit as he was. The Nevarran woman brushed some of his hair aside and wiped a bit more blood off another cut on his forehead before sighing and letting her dress fall back to her side. 

“If this was on another day, I’d make you fight again so I could buy a new dress. You’re lucky this is a red day,” she said with a cheeky grin before standing back up and walking towards the washroom to dump the water she’d been using to scrub his skin. She tossed him a sideways glance as she crossed the threshold in to the next room, a look of more than passing interest in the tall, shirtless elf slumped in her back store room criss-crossed in bandages, but Vaalen was too exhausted to do little more than mutely follow her with his eyes for a moment before returning his gaze to the floor. Beaten and still lightly covered in dirt and smeared blood, he sat shirtless on a small wooden stool in the back of the tavern in a room behind the bar itself placidly finishing the bindings around his stomach to help brace his ribs. It was cramped and uncomfortable, and smelled vaguely of dried ghoul’s beard, but it was away from the still raucous crowd barely a few feet away on the other side of the wall. The bar’s patrons were now even louder than they’d been at the end of the fight, as hard as that was to believe- after they’d been given a chance to restock their drinks and commiserate about their lost wages. They shouted curses and jokes at one another, burst in to lewd song, and recreated their favorite moments from the fight to laughing comrades with great enthusiasm, as if each were a bard in training for the Orlesian theaters. 

Vaalen felt sick at their happiness, though. Hearing the way several of them began to jokingly exaggerate the Qunari’s pained screams at having his knee broken, comparing it to sounding like a Hart in rut, made him clench his sole working fist again. He wanted to stand and hurl the small seat he was on through the wall, he wanted to smash their disrespectful faces in with whatever he could get his hands on, and kick every one of their drunken asses out in to the cold. He wanted to bring more pain. The problem was, he wasn’t sure he had the strength or the stamina to even stand, let alone dish out punishment on a room full of unruly humans. He sighed and drooped his head. What he really wanted was to just black out there and then, let the world and those people drop away, and sink in to a muteness that gave him a reprieve from all of that he was feeling. Then he could wake up in a few hours, hopefully with his memory and mind back in order, and start to put this mess back together again. The pain screaming from every corner of his body however said that sleep was not something that would likely come easily. 

The tavernkeep came back in and put a wooden pale of fresh water at his feet. “It’s time for me to circle the house and fill up drinks. I’ll be out there awhile tending to those buffoons. Finish washing yourself up and stay back here until I return. When I return, I’ll let you in to the guest room. Stay out of my food stores, and I might give you a bite of whatever those pigs don’t finish.” With that, she turned, her red dress swirling around her, and strode out the door on the opposite side of the room into the bar. A moment later, Vaalen could hear the patrons roar with cheers and immediately start demanding refills of an assortment of the cheapest ales. Vaalen closed his eyes and slumped back against the wall with a groan.

They all celebrated or acknowledged his victory, while he sat there alone and drinkless, still unsure of what caused the whole fracas in the first place. He was no closer to remembering the woman who might have inspired his poor choices. _Fool. You could have at least asked for a damn beer. That would have washed the taste of the elfroot healing potion out of your mouth._ Vaalen gingerly tilted his head back and closed his eyes, rubbing his bandaged left hand in his lap. Self-pity wasn’t a great place to find himself after still being alive he tried to remind himself, especially given the very real likelihood of his disembowelment at multiple points throughout the day prior. He should be glad, if not boastful, that at least he could still see, breath and have enough sense to be angry at himself. 

“And maybe she’s got a great ass…” Vaalen muttered to himself with an amused chuckle, again thinking of the woman he was struggling to recall. The act of laughter caught him by surprise, however, causing him to gasp and catch the air in his throat as his chest rebelled in pain. He felt himself overcome by a fit of irritated coughing despite his wishes, and began to wheeze and gag as he struggled to cough while simultaneously gasping in pain from the stress on his cracked ribs. His right hand clenched at his gut while his shattered left jerked tight, causing him yet more agony, forcing him to kick out with his legs. This threw his already precarious balance from leaning backwards completely off, and with a wave of hacking and cursing, Vaalen felt his seat give way and his body go spilling out on to the stone floor below. Though only a short drop, the fact that so much more of his body was no longer numb meant every little bump ignited his numerous contusions and fractures like streams of electrical magic arcing through his veins. His body sang with misery, and he quickly felt himself rolling to his side and curling helplessly in to a fetal ball as his coughing gradually subsided. Vaalen may have won, but he wasn’t sure the Qunari didn’t as well. 

“She might,” came a feminine, elven voice in an inviting tone, “but do you have the strength left to rise and check for yourself?” Vaalen’s eyes shot wide and he jerked his head back to look up at the newcomer. Through his exhaustion and coughing, he’d missed a woman entering the storage space from the washroom. In the dim light offered by the sun shining through a single, dirty window, Vaalen could vaguely make out the form of a lithe, female elf covered by a dark blue hooded cloak. Her legs were thick, yet toned, suppleness showing through skin-tight hide leather pants. Strong, toned arms came forward from underneath the cloak to rest on bent knees as she walked forward and squatted down next to him without making a sound. Each hand was covered in beautifully ornate silverite bracelets that extended down from the wrist and covered the back of the palm in layered etchings of elven design, almost like a pair of triangular, fingerless gloves. The designs emanated a soft, faint glow in the darkness of the room with an almost pale red hue. Vaalen tried to crane his neck to a more upright angle to get a better view of the visitor’s face, but the dark blue hood continued to obscure most of her features. All he could see was a pair of full, smiling, red lips, and a strip of dark, almost purple lipstick marked down the center of both the top and bottom in a stripe-like fashion. 

“I-“ he tried to begin, but she raised a hand to stop him. 

“I have heard of you and your history. I’ve seen those you’ve left a mark on, in one way or another. You are impulsive, and prone to fits of passion. You act with little regard for others, and you do what you believe to be your right to do. Such as killing my pupil.”

Vaalen couldn’t help himself from narrowing his gaze. Was she referring to the Qunari? _Shit,_ he thought. _If she trained that mountain…_ He felt himself tense instinctively. A moment later, though, he relaxed in wearied exasperation, resisting the will to prop himself up on his elbows and instead laying back down, this time on his back, with a sigh of defeat. 

“Look, you trained a hell of a good soldier. And he deserved a much better death than winding up here in this pigsty,” Vaalen said, closing his eyes and resting his hands to his sides. “If you want to collect his remains, I think they wrapped his body and are keeping it in the cellar. I meant to bury it when I recovered, but…well...” he trailed off. He knew what was coming. He knew he wasn’t going to get a chance to bury the huge warrior. If this elf was good enough to train that giant AND sneak up on Vaalen like this, then this was the end. She was most likely going to toy with him, take pieces of his shattered remains back to her different superiors, grisly trophies to show her success at avenging the loss of a promising young recruit, and only then would he be allowed to die, probably after a long and laborious torture. The big guy had sounded like he was part of the Qunari to Vaalen, and had had a name that suggested it too. _Is this she-elf a Qunari spy? Perhaps he was a fresh Tal-Vashoth, though,_ Vaalen wondered. _Maybe he joined a mercenary company, or maybe he was part of something else like a military company or band of bandits roaming the countryside looking for the next place to turn a fight in to a paycheck. Maybe this made her the captain of the group? Maybe this is all about money?_ In any case, Vaalen was sure the she-elf would spin this loss in to a personal victory on her career’s behalf, offering as many pieces of him as there were people who held a bounty on his head. If she’d talked to right people among his past acquaintances, that list was probably quite long. He doubted there’d be much left to torture when the cutting away of trophies was done.

At least, Vaalen thought to himself, he was determined not to give her the satisfaction of his suffering once it was over. No, when she went to torture any information out of him, he would simply swallow his own tongue or stab himself with the first blade he could get ahold of. Not that he actually knew anything worth keeping secret, he just didn’t have the effort left to endure what was coming. He was hurting enough, and he didn’t want to hurt any more.

The she-elf let out a slight, almost coy laugh, obviously enjoying seeing his abject defeat and resignation. “Here I am, describing you as selflish, and what is the first thing you do? You try to prove me wrong by offering to bury the foe who broke you. Tell me though, did you think of offering such a deed so as to spare yourself my vengeful wrath?” she asked with an air of almost genuine curiosity.

“What? No.” Vaalen replied indignantly, his eyes still closed, but his face screwing in to an expression of mild disdain. “If he was your student, then I’m sure we are beyond bargaining for mercy. What will happen to me is going to happen. Running from death now is wasting time on both of our parts, I accept that. I only wanted to bury him because I don’t like thinking what sort of lazy, piss poor jobs the slobs next door will do for him…if they don’t just feed him to the wolves. He didn’t deserve the mocking those degenerates gave him in the end…continue to give him…even if he was my enemy. A fighter like that is rare, rarer than they could ever appreciate, and certainly better than any son or daughter their backwater bloodlines will ever produce.” 

“So you want him buried because of your anger at others. I guess I wasn’t wrong then about your selfish disposition,” she replied calmly, as if the indictment held no particular grievance for her.

Despite himself, Vaalen scoffed. She was twisting the dagger and looking for ways to offend him, even as he tried to resist her, and it was working. “Look, clearly I’m an asshole, ok?” he offered, hoping to appease her seeming desire to see him accept wrong-doing. “I do bad things, and sometimes good things for bad reasons. I deserve what’s coming to me. So if that’s settled, can you just hurry up and hack away what you need for your bounty and then bash my head against the stone here so I can be done with it. I think the guilt trip is worse than the torture you might have planned,” he retorted, more than mildly irritated that she was taking her time in killing him.

At this, the mysterious female elf laughed again in a light, airy fashion. “I didn’t come here to guilt you about my student’s death, or to hack pieces off of you. At least not right away.” Her last words carried a faintly mischievous resonance. “He was strong, true, but not invincible, and not without his own faults. Most importantly, though, he was not strong _enough_ to overcome those faults. You were able to exploit them even as he attempted to exploit yours. Clearly, you emerged the victor, and thus I am left to acknowledge that you were stronger. That is why I am here.”

Vaalen, opened his eyes in confusion. _…what the hell is this elf saying?_

As if reading his thoughts, the she-elf continued. “You have your weaknesses, as do we all, but it was your strength that prevailed. Your rage was so much greater than your weaknesses that it let you overcome terrible odds. You have power. Real power. And with more, you could overcome so many more of your weaknesses than you even understand.”

 _Oh, lovely…_ Vaalen thought, _it’s one of those weird Andrastian cults, or blight-worshipping doomsayers… Of all the worst types of groups to piss off. I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t preach me to death first before snorting my ashes off a mummified pair of dragon’s balls._

“I think…you know, I’m flattered you’d think I have that, but really…” Vaalen’s mind faltered trying to find the words to say in the face of such absolutely ridiculous insanity, wavering between begging her to just kill him and playing for more time.

“You think me crazy, because you consider only the weaknesses you feel in the moment,” the elf again interjected. “The bones you’ve broken, the flesh you’ve torn, the muscles you’ve pulled- these are only a small fragment of the kinds of weaknesses you could learn to overcome. But they are not the only kind of weakness. There are also those which weigh on you for which the draught of a healing potion or wave of a cleric’s staff can never cure.”

Vaalen looked up at the elf, his eyes straining to peer through the darkness of her hood. He wanted to catch her eyes, read her expression, to see if this was all some elaborate game, some ruse she played shortly before burying a dagger in his leg. The darkness, however, maintained its veil on all but her lips, and she wore little in the way of an expression. An eerie, calm certitude resonated from her hovering, shadowy form. 

“You are gripped by a pain that runs deeper than you can tolerate. It threatens to disarm you and sap you of your spirit because you do not tame it. You wither in its shadow instead of subduing it and standing atop its conquered, hulking form. You let it master you instead of learning to master yourself. I come to offer you freedom from such a fate. Freedom from your fear. Freedom from your guilt. Freedom from your failings.”

Vaalen’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth moved to a sneer. “What is this…” he replied in a low, venomous tone. She knows about… he heard his mind instinctively start to say, but he pushed the pang of fear and shock that came with the thought aside before it could finish, trying to replace it with anger. “You don’t know the first part of my story, no matter who you spoke to. If you want to assume I have baggage that’s fine, but don’t go preaching to me bullshit about some magical freedom only you can offer. People died. I’m not looking for absolution for it, or my part in it. Only to see that it doesn’t happen to anyone else.” Vaalen could feel his blood pressure rising again, and despite his exhausted and battered state, he realized he was already getting himself back to a seated position, moving closer to the she-elf’s face in an aggressive manner. Making a jest of his current suffering was one thing, but dragging his carefully locked-away memories to the fore was triggering an old and very raw fury inside that rapidly worked to drown his physical pains. His rage threatened to drive him further still when he suddenly became aware that he was losing his temper. _She’s playing me._

Propped upwards and much closer to his guest’s face than before, Vaalen took a moment to close his eyes and catch a breath. When he opened them again, he suddenly noticed just how close the two had gotten to one another. At this distance, he began to make out the rest of her features in the shadows. Large, relaxed, green eyes and smooth, tan skin gave her an almost alluring appearance, enhanced by just a touch of Antivan-like flair. Dark red, wavy hair hung down on either side of her cheeks in rivulets, framing her profile within the hood like a satin border on a painting. Her wide cheeks angled sharply down to a thin but defined jaw line, and a long, graceful neck disappeared below in to a black, sleeveless tunic that concealed more than a modest bosom. Her skin was smooth like treated marble, but toned arms and defined thigh muscles outlined through her leather pants conveyed a coiled, athletic grace born of physical exertion and trial, not pampering or leisure. In total, Vaalen had to admit she was actually rather beautiful, a lithe specimen of a woman with more than a few pleasant attributes… _Your eyes are wandering,_ he reminded himself. Snapping himself out of the moment, he remembered just how effectively she was also currently pissing him off so badly, AND likely about to kill him at any moment. _Never think with your shaft in place of a blade..._

Just as he became uncomfortably aware of their unintentional proximity to one another and moved to scoot himself backwards, she placed one of her hands gently but firmly on his exposed chest and pushed him back down to his back with surprising strength. The gauntlet about her wrist glowed slightly brighter, the red light growing through the room like a creeping miasma of color. Her light, graceful fingers pressed flat against his skin as if she were simply resting them on a table, but the force was undeniable and Vaalen could do little to hold himself up against it. Each finger was surprisingly warm, as if she had just dipped them in to a tub of warm bath water moments before touching him. “Lay still. Now is not the time for another fight,” she said in a calm, but stern tone. “Simply listen. If what I am about to offer doesn’t appeal to you, then you can seek retribution for any perceived slight I’ve made of your past when you’re healed. I will even let you choose the weapon of your choice for us to duel with. But…if you accept…” At this she paused as her lips curled slightly more upwards in to an almost self-satisfied smirk. “…then I can assure you, we will still have plenty of chances to test one another's true strength. And for you to show me just how _unchained_ of your fears you really are.”

Vaalen scowled again at the jab laden within her final sentence, but his mind was becoming increasingly fixated on her warm fingers still pressed to his chest instead of her concession for revenge. She was keeping him pinned with just one hand despite appearing only half his height and weight. _How is she this strong?_ he marveled in awe. Just as noticeably, she was smiling while doing it. Clearly, there was a grain of truth to her offer of power, even if it was buried in the ramblings of an apparent elven soothsayer. At the same time though, she seemed to be enjoying this whole experience of subduing a little too much for his sake. _Is this a type of power I really want a part of?_

“What is this offer?” Vaalen said cautiously, looking from her hand on his skin, wreathed in its lightly glowing bracelet, back up to her shrouded face.

Sensing his shifting willingness, she leaned in closer, again bringing her face less than a few inches from his and hovering her body over his laid out form beneath her. He felt the warmth in palm flare even higher, to the point it almost began to burn, and the light from the runes on her bracelet shone brighter still, casting both of them in a contrast of red and shadow. The hood of her cloak came to rest against his forehead as her face moved directly in front of his. A few strands of her dark red hair slipped forward and dangled down around his eyes and cheeks like physical manifestations of the growing energy beginning to hum between them. He felt her weight shift as she slowly but smoothly put her other hand down for support and slid her thighs over and on top of him, her legs coming to straddle either side of his waist in a single, graceful motion. Her eyes narrowed even more still as she relaxed her weight in to him, her smile widening in to an almost predatory grin. Vaalen felt trapped and surprised all at once. Even as he struggled to grasp what was happening to him, a sickly sweet bouquet of various scents and oils emanating off of her body caught his nose and froze his consciousness. A vague aroma of Crystal Grace petals, Felandaris root and other flowers spoke to different kinds of lotions or perfume that pleased the senses. Something else, however, really caught his attention as her breath passed by his face. This smell was fuller and richer in complexity, vaguely familiar and yet entirely novel at the same time while putting a biting tang to his nostrils. 

His pulse quickened as he identified the source. _Blood._

 _Human? No…something else…an animal? Why does her breath smell of blood? Has she been…drinking it?_ Vaalen’s mind raced as he tried to resist the overwhelming flood of sensations to his body, his thoughts and will weaving back and forth between confusion and intoxicating overstimulation, working against each other to assess the potential threat he now faced.

“My offer is simple,” she spoke quietly, locking her large green eyes to his, the red light of her bracelets accentuating the depth of her gaze in stark relief from below. “How do you think you can handle a good _breaking?_ ” The lips of her smile parted as she spoke the words, revealing a flash of white, bared teeth. The words sent Vaalen’s eyes widening, and he squirmed slightly under her weight in a nervous, growing fear. In response, he felt her tighten her legs together, squeezing down on his waist while her calves and boots secured the sides of his knees. He suddenly felt like a rabbit trapped in the coils of a snake, helpless to avoid its fate of being consumed whole. Panic welled in his eyes and he started to regret being so cavalier about letting her control the situation from the start. 

_My body is already broken, what more is there left to break?_ The prospect of what she could mean unnerved him almost as much as her vice-like hold despite her smaller size.

And yet… even as the question swirled in his panicked mind, a small part of him also began to feel himself willingly consider her offe The words turned over in his mind more and more as a growing excitement started to replace his earlier concern. The prospect of seeing the strength this she-elf promised to reveal within him was taking hold in his thoughts. He couldn’t deny the power she seemed to command, and it was intoxicating, even without her ample form and exotic features to go with it. His mind all but hurt as competing agendas fought for the direction of his will, while his pulse soared higher and higher. His heart thumped loudly in his chest, and he knew she could feel its beat through his skin as she held him down, pinning him to the cool stone floor beneath her. 

The she-elf lowered herself still half a breath further, leaning forward and sliding her body against his. Resting her chest against him, she let both of her hands slide to his sides and then up his arms, fingertips tracing muscles like tendrils on a vine until she cradled the back of his head in an interlocked pattern amongst his hair. Her face dipped low to let her mouth reach his cheek, her lips coming to rest barely along the edge of his skin. He could feel the gentle warm exhales of her controlled breathing against his face like the steady rhythm of a campfire’s dancing flame, and his flesh pulsed with a yearning desire to feel still more. His thoughts leapt to half a dozen other places he desperately wanted to feel her breath against his skin as well, and he instinctively bit his lower lip. All thoughts of the cuts, scrapes and breaks floated away as his mind melted in to a shapeless puddle of surrender against overpowering control. In that instant, Vaalen felt only her against him, her soft breath gently slipping over him like a silk sheath, and the tightening pressure of her hips. Goosebumps stretched down his arms and spine, and Vaalen arched his back as if by command, pressing himself upwards against her, his tensing and trembling frame pushing in to her waiting embrace. In response she locked a tuft of his hair behind his head in her right hand and pulled down slowly, arching his chin upwards and allowing her to move her lips down the side of his neck, still barely grazing his flesh. Her mouth came to rest against the edge of his jugular.

“Time to decide,” she whispered softly.


	2. Blood In The Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet the story's protagonist, Sendra Lavellan, and learn a little bit about the complicated relationship she has with her clan and family. They love her and wish her the best, but don't always believe in her. For someone about to face one of the greatest crises known to Thedas, what does that do to you, and how does that stifle or help your desire to grow? What does it mean to balance expectation to succeed with expectation to fail?

### Chapter 2 - Blood In The Water

##### 26th of Harvestmere

##### 9:40 Dragon

Sendra pressed her ear to the cool earth of the forest floor. Above, birds twittered and sang amidst the tangled mass of leafy branches. All around her, the cool air of the shady, dense foliage hummed with the buzzing of insects and the skittering of smaller beasts, ducking to and fro amidst the blanket of green. Her nose filled with the gentle scents of soil, water and wood, blended together with a sublime delicacy only the Maker could muster. The world was alive with life in its myriad of forms, happily going about the day in blissful simplicity and ease on a warm, cloudless morning. Sendra, however, could not afford to join in the carelessness of nature. 

Instead, she lay prone on her stomach against the edge of the trail, straining her ears to listen, body tense and ready for any sign of the impending danger lurking somewhere just out of sight. Holding her breath, Sendra focused, making sure to keep her eyes open and alert. This was a trick she’d learned from her clan's Keeper, Istimaethoriel, many moons before. “Be still your senses," the old woman had said in a faded, gentle tone, "but not your mind. Never surrender your sight no matter what you seek, or you will lose yourself before you ever find it." They were wise words, especially in a forest like the one Sendra currently found herself, filled with vagrant human mages and the Templar brutes hunting them. She tensed, searching for any faint sound or vibration that would betray heavy footfall, the clash of steel, or crackle of magical energy.

A few moments passed. A small robin landed nearby, hopping towards her curiously before grabbing a small worm and darting back up to a branch above. Behind her, the wind gently rustled a small leaf and sent it tumbling away, a lone traveler prancing away in to the woods like a sprite in dance. The insects continued to hum, buzz, and click from all around, oblivious to the elf’s tension. 

Nothing.

Sendra cautiously relaxed her muscles, and after another moment of still more silence, pushed off her stomach and rose to her knees, looking ahead down the winding shaded path. She had never been a part of the Circle, belonging clearly to the Dalish by virtue of her small, elven features and striking _vallaslin_ etched across her face in a crescent pattern of intertwining branches. Her particular pattern sat atop her brow and curved down her cheeks, fading just before her jaw before picking up again at the cleft of her neck and collar bone and continuing onward between her breasts. She wore them proudly, a sign of her birthright and ancestry she was not afraid to hide. However, she was also a mage- a mage at a time when the very word itself came laced with connotations of civil strife and rebellion, no matter one’s lineage. Ere go, it paid to be cautious. 

The First of clan Lavellan, she had only ever learned to use her abilities in the rituals and practices accorded to her by the traditions of her Keeper. This stretched to simple barriers of protective energy or the ability to ignite a small bundle of kindling for cooking and warmth in the evening light. She could read the winds for signs of veil energy, or feel the presence of magic in the water to gauge the tides, nothing grandiose or meant for destruction. Unfortunately, shemlen were increasingly taking little heed of such details, caring only that she could hold a staff and use magic at will, even magic as rudimentary as her own. It seemed if you could light a candle, you could summon the very breath of a dragon. To them, anyone who could use a spell was part of the larger turmoil threatening to swallow the surrounding countries in bitter fighting that had erupted after the fall of Kirkwall. Fear had bred mistrust, and mistrust was growing quickly in to anger and resentment. 

Sendra had never gotten a straight answer about what had happened there, or why the mages of so many Circle towers were abandoning their posts and fleeing to the hills in the wake of the disaster. Her clan traded freely with many small villages along their annual path between Wycome and the Amaranthine Ocean, but none of the numerous villagers or merchants with which she’d seen her father trade had given a consistent story. Every time one told what they knew, a new twist or variation to the plot seemed to have developed that could explain the mess or simply added to the pile of offenses. From mages possessed of pride demons running through the streets on fire, to Templars drunk on lyrium sacrificing children for sport, no two stories were ever the same. Stories had gotten so fanciful, in fact, Sendra very much doubted the veracity of even the most simplistic of renditions any longer. Her Keeper knew more, of that she was certain, but the older elf had seemed reticent to share with her pupil, even when pressed by the inquisitive young woman in private. “ _Hamin ma’len_ ,” she replied calmly each time Sendra pushed, only serving to frustrate the younger mage more and more as the war grew worse. _She calls for relaxation? Now, as the forests fill with battle and our allies build walls that keep us out from trade? Why? What is the point? Am I not old enough to handle the truth? Am I not ready?_ The thoughts had plagued her constantly, and continued even now, so far from home.

For many ages, Keeper Istimaethoriel had weathered the ridicule for allowing trade with the shems by not only other clans but also those families from within Lavellan itself that harbored deep-seated bitterness at the brutality and violence humans had shown her kind. Time and again, she had brought temperance and served as a voice of reason during arguments that flared between humans who came to buy or sell at their camp and the people of her own clan, including Sendra’s parents on a few occasions. Sendra’s father was a proficient craftsman of fine glass and baubles, owing much of his small fortune in coppers (at least by elvhen standards) to the shemlen who bought his unique amulets, necklaces and rings or needed the lenses of their glasses and monocles repaired. His skill was unquestioned at the kiln, and he was invited on more than a few occasions in to the homes of wealthy patrons or to visit clients personally as a form of thanks and to broker private trade agreements. 

By the standards of even the most progressive of her kind, he walked a thin line between the customs of the Dalish and the world of humans, seeming at ease in one as he was in the other. Sendra, however, knew the truth. She saw the way he would quietly overcharge or underpay for materials and items any time he interacted with an outsider. When asked, he claimed the difference was due to the quality of his work and the rarity of securing another with his skill in less than a week’s walk. Once the shemlen was out of earshot though, he wouldn’t hesitate to complain at the shoddy craftsmanship of what they brought to trade with or gloat at how well he had fleeced them of their coin, even if they had been only a poor farmer desperate to find a token for a loved one. Others in the clan would sometimes egg him on, joining in his reverie, eager to see the misfortune of those who they felt had so often contributed to their own. The display embarrassed and sickened Sendra, and secretly she took relief when a merchant or trader discovered her father’s ruse and returned red at the face demanding recompense. Not that she enjoyed seeing spoiled humans feel entitled to better treatment than an elf per se, but watching _two_ entitled men tear in to each other with words and accusations was a come-uppance of the most divine irony.

She loved her family and her clan deeply, more than she had known for anything else in the world, but she did not always love the things they did. For this, she felt blessed the clan had such a wise and empathetic Keeper as Istimaethoriel. She had taught Sendra nearly everything she knew, and had kept all of Lavellan honest with one another, encouraging each of them to see family and friendship as more than words, but responsibilities to be upheld with as much diligence and respect as any trade or practice might require. Perhaps as equally important to Sendra herself, the Keeper was also a much needed counterweight of feminine love and understanding against Sendra’s mother, who had never understood or agreed with her daughter’s ‘choices’ to become a mage. To the older Lavellan woman, learning to use magic was a decision, one which prevented Sendra from living a life of safety and relative simplicity among the clan. Despite repeatedly trying to reveal that magic was not just a choice but a way of being for her, Sendra’s mother would only sigh, shake her head, and whisper “ _Fen’Harel ma ghilana”_ in exasperation.

 _Ugh…mother.._. Even after twenty-years of learning patience and callousness to the many back-handed comments thrown her way, that was a rabbit hole of feelings that threatened to swallow Sendra’s focus and test the limits of her patience on even the best of days. Simply stated, if Istimaethoriel hadn’t become Keeper, Sendra wasn’t sure either she or her mother wouldn’t have left the clan seasons ago. Regardless, with as much as she trusted and owed the Keeper, the older woman’s continued silence about what caused the chaos of the civil war between mages and Templars unsettled her greatly. It made no sense to speak of openness and honesty and then stay mum about something tearing the woods around their aravels in to flames and ash, especially with the one person slated to take stead in the event of the Keeper’s demise. Already, two of their hunters had gone missing on forays near battlefields for food in just the last six months, and Sendra hadn’t seen any sign of the other clans from the Green Dales or Vinmark in nearly two years, leaving clan Lavellan precariously isolated. In response, Keeper Istimaethoriel had ordered her people to stick closer to Wycome, daring not venture too far from the safety of the city walls and local guard patrols, yet not too close so as to arise the ire of the inhabitants within. Even with as little protection as those features promised, they were better than risking the countryside where death and large scale battles seemed to happen ever more on the daily. 

And now, at the height of the turmoil, the old woman had sent Sendra away to some far off meeting in the south, armed with little more than a simple instruction to sit and listen to Chantry sisters and Circle enchanters bicker. Why couldn’t she stay here for that? _Maker knows that’s not exactly uncommon. Why do I need to go so far away to see it?_ Sendra had barely had time to pack a basic set of travel attire and food before the Keeper gave her a map and a blessing for the road. Her mother and father provided coin for Sendra to join a merchant caravan under guard by Antivan mercenaries headed south to Ostwick, and gave their daughter a tight hug, seeming as surprised by the Keeper’s sudden change in plan as she did. They had never let her travel more than a few miles from the confines of the camp, and never by herself. Always, one of the hunters or gatherers of the clan was nearby, if not Keeper Istimaethoriel herself. Not only was this was the first time Sendra would be entirely on her own, but she was taking a voyage further than any in her clan had gone since the age of Storms. 

She had felt terrified and exhilarated all at once the morning she left, eager to finally learn and see the world beyond the increasingly shrinking confines of Wycome’s protected borders, yet fearful of the many dangers her parents were quick to remind her of. “In case of bears, make sure to keeping rubbing spindleweed on your clothes. And embrium for wolves. Oh, and don’t forget that shemlen can’t handle raw felandaris, so keep some of that on you too in case some farm boy gets handsy,” her father told her as Keeper Istimaethoriel walked around the side of her family’s aravel. “Yes father,” Sendra replied, feigning moderate annoyance. In truth, she was close to tears having to rush her goodbyes, worried at how long it would be before she got to see them again. “I just don’t know, Sendra. Are you sure you’re really…good enough to be a mage yet? Aren’t you still kind of clumsy with that…that…whatever you were trying to do last week?” Sendra’s mother added, a note of caution and concern in her voice. _Gee mom, how supportive…_ Sendra tried to resist shooting her a piercing glare, reminding herself that her mother probably WAS worried for her, she just didn’t know the right ways to convey it.

“Do not fret the girl’s ability, Debyra. She is twenty-eight and more than capable with the staff. It is her time. She is ready, and will do us all proud.” Again, Keeper Istimaethoriel came to the rescue, settling things between Sendra and her mother in a few short words that would have taken weeks otherwise. Sendra also noted she dismissed the failure with stone levitation the week prior, even if the boulder had nearly crushed two Halla and an aravel full of winter food rations when Sendra lost control of it. Though she appreciated that her mistakes were forgiven, she knew her mother was at least partially right, and the Keeper had to know it as well- she wasn’t fully ready. That the Keeper still pushed this assignment none the less made her doubly as nervous. _This is more serious than she’s letting on_. 

Within days, Sendra found herself in Ostwick, wide-eyed and nervous. There, she had spent hours wandering in confusion amidst the unfamiliar cobble streets and shanty wooden buildings. She’d seen it once or twice before years ago, from afar, as her clan moved to a meeting between other Dalish in the nearby Vinmark forests, but they had never tarried long in its borders. Dazed, and feeling more than a bit out of place somewhere so unlike the woods and valleys she was accustomed to, Sendra had clutched her outer-robe around her all the tighter, attempting to hide the fact that she was an out-of-place Dalish elf in a city filled with sharp-toothed, greasy men looking for any reason to persecute magic users. Her staff she kept carefully wrapped and concealed in a long sack slung over her shoulder, meant to resemble a rod of a fishing pole or handle of a field tool so as not to raise suspicion. After a bit of searching, and more than a few lurid stares, Sendra found a vessel headed south to Ferelden that wouldn’t drain her of the last drops of coin. 

Despite the pot-bellied captain’s continued insistence she spend the evenings in his quarters, she resided for the week crossing the Waking Sea with a dozen other refugees and vagrants down in the hull, away from his roving, hungry eyes. There, she had taken time to eavesdrop on the private ramblings and fitful words each of her fellow passengers muttered in their sleep or shouted in the waking nightmares that sometimes overtook their minds. It’s not that she enjoyed the act of snooping, but rather found it to be one of the few ways to keep her own mind off the crushing nausea of sea-sickness that overcame her each time the boat pitched or yawed, sending her shakily flopping about below deck in the stale, cramped air of the cargo hold like so many of the pickled fish in jars at her feet. 

Each shem had a different story about what drove them to run, each a tragedy that was both unique and alike at the same time. One man, for example, woke every night screaming, and proceeded to pace the wooden hull relentlessly until exhaustion and soreness drove him to his knees. An older couple, nearing their sixtieth years, clung tightly to one another, whispering with shocked and glazed over expressions about how many of the animals on their farm might still be there when they returned. They never once discussed when this return might be, however, and as time dragged on, Sendra noted they increasingly switched from “when we get home” to “if’s” as if the act of maintaining hope was too tiresome to maintain. Another man, slightly younger and covered in soot, clutched a carrying case tightly to his charred velvet coat. Sticking out the sides of the case, Sendra could see bits of letters and drawings, some in a crude and childish hand, others in an eloquent and feminine style. He spent most of the trip simply sitting in one place holding the package, looking straight ahead with a blank expression of fatigue and sorrow. The way his features sagged and eyes seemed to cry, even without tears, reminded her of the way the Keeper had looked each time a hunter failed to return from the forest safely. Sendra found it hard to watch, made even worse by the feelings of helplessness at not being able to soothe his pain. 

The more she saw and heard, the more her worry and pessimism about what was laying in store for her in Haven grew. When the boat finally reached solid land at the village of Amaranthine, she couldn’t wait to be free of the depression, melancholy and vomit that had choked her spirit for days in the bowels of the ship. In only a few hours, she had strived to put as much distance between herself and that miserable boat as possible, and was now more than a few leagues further inland. With each step further away, however, her fear grew as the reality of where she was began to catch up with her.

This forest was not familiar. The animals, plants and trees, smells and sounds, sensations and magics that hummed and breathed around her were not like the more tropical and warmer woods found further north. This forest was older, the woods made of different pines and elms that seemed to live longer than the faster growing vines and oaks of her native woodland back home. The animals, too, though similar in shape and size, had slightly different coat colorations and songs that gave them little details which Sendra kept finding strange and out of order. Most unsettling, the very earth and air held a whiff of energy her senses had never felt before. Magic in the stones and trees did not bend as receptively to her touch or words as before, and her attempts to call forth her own energy had met with a sensation almost like the drag of a stream around her body if she stood submerged in the middle of the flow. She wasn’t sure why, but the magic in this place felt…more _alive_ , almost sentient, demanding she take a more active role in claiming it for her own if she was to use it. 

She rose quietly to her feet, hoping to shake the nagging dread tugging at her mind. Pulling back the hood of her robe, she loosed the knot holding it together around her neck, and freed her short, amber hair to the sky. The chill of the shaded morning air crept down her neck and Sendra shivered as her body acclimated to the exposed temperature in surprise. Enjoying the sensation, she continued by pulling the dark cloth apart off her chest as well, peeling her arms out of the sleeves, first her left, and then her right. She undid the second knot around her waist, and, finally free, dropped to her feet and stepped out of it, letting the cool air wash over the rest of her entire body. Despite what townsfolk often wishfully believed, Keepers and their First were not naked under the robes they wore. Sendra’s robe had been overly large and concealing so as to keep her identity and staff as obscured as possible to the common passer-by, but that didn’t mean she didn’t wear clothes underneath. Her true attire was far lighter and easier to move in- a v-cut green tunic with shoulders and short, leather shorts hugged her chest and hips, while long cloth stockings were pulled up over her legs and knees to offer warmth and protection from thorns or branches. On her feet, simple leather moccasins made travel quiet, yet comfortable on long journeys roaming over natural ground.

“Ahhh…better,” Sendra sighed to herself quietly, the anxiety slipping away like the morning fog. She had hated the big, black robe the Keeper had given her, and was glad to be rid of it. She had felt like a necromancer or cultist, slinking about in the shadows and casting sideway glances under a shadowy hood like she planned to do some nefarious deed at any moment. Free of the baggy, heavy cloth weighing her down, she reached her arms up above and her head and stretched her legs, enjoying the full range of uninhibited mobility afforded to her again. The disguise had been practical, Sendra had to admit, and she was glad to have had it for her dealings in town; but now, out here in the woods and seemingly on her own, she was more than ready to put it back in her pack like so many of her earlier concerns.

She was alone, but that didn’t mean things would stay that way. Out in the forest, it paid to be ready for quick thinking and rapid escape, to blend in and run with the leaves rather than act the out of place fool. A better camouflage was needed than looking like a Nevarran _mortalitasi_ , and as Sendra bundled the last of her cloak away in her backpack, she turned and rubbed some of the fresh soil along the path down her arms and neck. This would help to mask her scent, and break up the profile of her skin among the shadows of the leaves above. Finished, she re-shouldered her pack and adjusted her staff in her hands to offer support to help her balance.

The wooden shaft was light but strong in her grip, and resonated with comfortable familiarity. Sendra smiled at the easiness at which it floated on her fingers. Almost five feet in length, the wood was a type of ashtree that grew only in the mountains surrounding the Green Dales. Her mother and father had gifted it to her the season of her twelfth year at the Keeper’s request, and it had been arguably the best gift they had ever given her. Sendra prized the staff above any of her other possessions because it was not only a symbol of what she was meant to be, but also what she could still yet become. It had been awkward at first, too long for her short stature, but the Keeper believed this would help the young girl focus more on using the implement as a means to cast the spells she was being taught rather than trying to whack things over the head with, a tactic Sendra had grown more than a little too fond of for Istimaethoriel’s tastes. This was especially true when the other young elvhen children were around. Despite acknowledging the honor of taking the Keeper’s side as First, they often teased young Sendra for not learning how to use a bow or smith’s hammer like a ‘proper’ hunter-craftsman of the clan, and would jokingly infer it was due to ineptitude at being anything but a glorified ‘Keeper’s pet.’

In response, Sendra spent hours chasing them with sticks or rocks, threatening to pummel them and show them just how talented she could truly be. The tides turned again when the other children began their training with blades. They started to get the upper hand, disarming Sendra with their own sticks or short clubs and laughing at her confused expression when they bonked her on the head or play-stabbed her gut with gleeful, chiding laughter. This only infuriated the girl more, and she looked to the way the Keeper kept a long staff as indication that longer sticks than her opponents could parry might be the next solution. Back and forth Sendra went with the other children, each year falling further and further behind those of the clan who received martial training. Increasingly frustrated, Sendra still refused to accept defeat, and finally pleaded with several of the more experienced hunters for help. 

One, Allaveneras, took pity on her and began to teach her in private how to hold a weapon and conduct herself in a fight. He had felt sorry for the girl, feeling, as she did, that she was being treated like a flower, too precious to bloom and thus robbed of the potential it might one day reveal. Curiously to him though, the child refused his offers for help in learning the sword, and demanded instead that she keep her staff. That she have her own weapon that was associated with what she chose to become was important to the girl, and Sendra wanted to show staves had every bit a place in the pantheon of combat weapons as what the others used from their paths of life. Though unaccustomed himself to using such a weapon, Allaveneras simply shrugged and worked with her on reading the basic timings and feints of a one on one duel in place of weapon-specific attacks. 

The little protégé learned quickly, and within weeks even started to adapt her own unique moveset with the staff to what she discovered about fights with blades all on her own, surprising both Allaveneras and Keeper Istimaethoriel. Where many mages learned to infuse the crystals or orbs at the head of their staff with magic they could then release as small bursts of projectile energy, Sendra kept her attacks close, holding the charged energy in the staff’s end like a primed, albeit miniaturized, explosive force released the moment she landed a physical strike or jab on her target. In this way, she was a front line caster, standing at the fore with her ashwood swinging and spinning in dizzying twirls, sweeps and thrusts that her opponents had to avoid lest the blow connect with a resounding crack and send them hurtling courtesy of the stored magical power detonating on impact. The Keeper had expected the exercise to simply be nothing more than another bonding experience between clan members when she first learned of Allaveneras’s teachings, but when young hunters began to return with bruised faces and cracked knuckles however, Istimaethoriel put a stop to the lessons, condemning Sendra’s insistence on violence. “ _Durgen in ma’taren, da’len,_ ” she had chided the girl in a wearied, annoyed tone. 

_Stubborn as a stone. That’s about right_ , Sendra remembered the old Keeper’s words with a self-satisfied smile.

Her days of practice hadn’t ended there of course, and as the years wore on, Sendra continued to train, sometimes on her own, sometimes not. With the help of Allaveneras or other hunters willing to risk Istimaethoriel’s wrath again for a chance to see her unique and growing talent in person, Sendra continued to pick up bits and pieces to the art of hand to hand and armed combat. Day by day, week by week, Sendra slowly got better wielding the staff as a weapon. As the others her age grew and became tempered by the rigors of duty and responsibility now placed upon them in their adult roles with the clan, they no longer insulted her or mocked her choice of weapon, seeming to accept and even admire her for what she had accomplished with her talents. Despite the end of her social teasing, she still practiced as much as her studies would allow. Rather than continue as a means to exact revenge, the young mage began to find the fluidity and grace of learning to transform the staff like a dance only she knew how to master. As neither a club nor an axe, Sendra realized the weapon worked best when it could become a physical, elongated projection of her own dexterous frame, moving with her body, not merely forced by it reflexively.

As she matured, the art of staff combat training increasingly became the therapeutic cap to many an otherwise overwhelming day, usually brought on by the constant tide of intellectual and magical challenges Keeper Istimaethoriel seemed to be able to put before her in endless array. As the staff grew in to an instrument capable of wielding a variety of Dalish magics through her spirit, so too did the humble piece of wood grow in to an increasingly effective tool for battle at the levy of her strikes. In this way, Sendra never grew tired or bored of holding it. It was as multi-purpose as the many abilities, skills and moves she knew how to channel through it, both magical and physical. In short, the staff, like her life, had found its own diverse path to purpose.

 _The men currently warring across the forests are not the same patient clan members willing to let you spar for practice though,_ she had to remind herself. Sendra frowned at the thought, and gripped her staff tighter. The reality facing her now was unlike the fanciful imaginings of her afternoon bouts in the forest to the north where she pictured herself besting her peers and reinstating her honor. The Templars wore armor at least twice as heavy as anything the hunters did back home, meaning her blows would likely ring off of their heavy plate with little more than a grazing, clanging noise. The mages, meanwhile, were all from various Circle towers. Trained since children, as she was, they were given formal schooling every day instead of being allowed to wander the woods and hills for leisure when they pleased like she had been. Their diligence to study, coupled with the fact that they were taught from tomes and books that covered a great swath of potential magical fields, far beyond the narrower scope of forest and survival talents she knew, made Sendra certain they were unquestionably skilled enough in magic to be a real threat. The smoking craters and twisted, disfigured remains she’d seen after several of the battles back home gave vivid evidence to that. 

Most importantly, both groups had experience with something she had never been forced to do- landing a killing blow against another living person. Sure, in spats with other children or hunters she’d taken one or two heavy hits when she’d particularly raised someone’s ire with a well-placed curse, or gotten herself clumsily out of position in the path of a falling practice rod. She’d even played her part in more than one ritual requiring the blood of a Halla or hare for the gods, taken the life of a sick animal suffering in its end, and brought down a few wolves whose hunger drove them to stalk and attack her in the depths of winter. _But a living, breathing person…_ She had never been on the other end of a real dispute with someone actually intent to slay her before. The need to kill or be killed had not been thrust upon her yet, and she was hoping to let such an ordeal pass her by for as long as possible. Hoping…but not expecting. Sendra knew such inexperience could not last long, especially in the face of so much anger and frustration as she had already seen. If history had taught her people anything, it was that when spells and swords of the shemlen fell upon one another, they did not fall limp at the first sign of elvhen blood either.

 _The Halla who bleeds is the first the wolf goes for_ , she told herself, reciting the old Dalish proverb in her mind with solemn certitude. _The Halla who shows strength lives to see the morning sun_. The message was clear: _Do not let them bleed you._ The stern self-command put a rigidity to her back and she straightened up, tensing her shoulders and setting her jaw with a focused stare. She would make it to Haven only if she kept her wits about her and remained brave. Any weakness, even fear, was a sign for the two sides to take notice of and exploit, and she wasn’t going to let that happen. She still had so much to learn, so many paths to wander in the forests, and many more hours to spend helping the people of her clan and family find their way forward. She was the First after all, the only one born with magical gifts since Keeper Istimaethoriel herself, and it was her duty to one day become the voice for her family of wisdom and leadership. To fall now would mean none would be left to take the mantle in the absence of the Keeper, a prospect becoming increasingly real as Istimaethoriel was getting well along in her years. Even if another sensitive to the winds of magic was born in to the clan, it was already too late to hope they would be trained in time to take the reins and guide Lavellan to a safe and prosperous future. 

Her people needed her. If she fell, so did they.

 _I must be what I was born to be_ , she thought, attempting to steel herself with resolve. _I can’t let them all down. Emma ma’arla. My family is with me,_ she told herself silently, as much a gesture of self-assurance as a promise for the others back home. Images of her mother and father, Keeper Istimaethoriel, and the other hunters and gatherers with whom she’d grown played across her mind briefly, before Sendra clipped the last of her gear in place to her clothes and situated the weight, making sure it was comfortable on her body.

With that, she set forth again on the trail south, walking silently among the shadows of the great trees above. The foliage pushed tighter and tighter to the sides of the path, and it wasn’t long before she was swallowed up in to the understory entirely, the path vanishing in to the branches and leaves. With her way lost and wanting to avoid making much noise, she traveled slow, and by mid-afternoon she figured she had gone only another two leagues before re-emerging from the thickness of the bushes along the edge of a small creek. She stopped to slake her thirst in the cool, fresh waters of the stream, kneeling to refill her water pouch and gauge whether or not she wanted to move along the edge of the water to avoid another few hours of careful yet laborious travel in the thickets. Journeying among the tangle of trees and shrubs was tiring, but the safest path to take. However, the sooner she got to Haven, the sooner Sendra knew she could lay low and get herself situated to watch the talks rather than barging in at the last minute, ill prepared to hide. Though the Conclave was still a few weeks away, she expected at least another few days of travel by foot to the edge of Lake Calenhad at this rate, and, if she was lucky, a week more beyond that to cross in to the Frostback Mountains safely. Her time was short and her journey still far. Playing it safe by sticking to the woods ensured she got there, but perhaps too late. Staying to the creek’s edge was faster, but far more likely to get her discovered.

As she worked over the decision in her mind, she almost missed the first few drops of blood floating past her in the water. The subtle shimmer of red amidst the crystal clear water and pebbles caught her eye as it snaked by. Taking a second to register what it was, she quickly knelt low in alarm and tried to follow the trail upstream with her eyes, hoping she hadn’t already been seen. Worry crept in as she scanned the babbling ripples and small eddies of the current, her gaze anxiously following a thin ribbon of red seeping its way along in the water until it came to rest forty yards further up the bank. There, a single still hand stuck out of a bush flanking the creek, fingers jutting limply up in to the sky while the back of the hand rested quietly against the water’s surface. Sendra very much doubted the owner of the hand was still worth worrying about given the paleness of the skin and deep cuts along the sides of the wrist and palms, so her eyes wasted little time turning to dance around the surrounding shore line and trees. Nervously searching for any sign of the danger which had caused the attack, or threat to her own persons in the form of a well-concealed trap, Sendra watched in breathless fear.

Seconds stretched like hours as she desperately looked for anything that might betray the truth, her sharp, copper eyes flitting from shadow to shadow like the flight of a wren. A minute passed. Then two. 

Nothing. 

No sound of a hidden assassin’s breathing, no clank of an unsheathed sword, or faint crackle of building magical energy. The birds continued their cheerful calls, the insects kept up their incessant humming, and the creek kept gurgling steadily by, all seemingly indifferent to the dead man barely a few yards away. As far as she could tell, nothing sinister was lurking amongst the bushes, waiting to strike. Sendra summoned her courage at last and cautiously moved from where she’d tucked low to hide, creeping carefully back in to the thick brush and tree line above the water like a crab moving across the sand. Despite every instinct in her mind telling her to flee and hide, Sendra wanted to know what had happened. _How did the man die? Is he a Templar? A mage? What was he doing way out here, in the middle of the forest? Why haven’t I seen signs of anyone else?_ Her mind roiled with questions, and against her better judgement, Sendra found herself turning back upstream and looping around to the site where she’d earlier spotted the body to find more clues. Remaining cautious in case something was still waiting to rear its dangerous head, she hoped to find more information about what had caused the man to die, telling herself if she knew the cause of death, she would thus be better prepared to avoid such a fate. 

When she got within a few yards, she could hear the buzz of the insects getting faintly louder. A few flies had already found the kill first and were busy beginning the quick process of reclaiming the remains for the forest. Mercifully, the smell hadn’t started, helping Sendra date the death to within only a few hours. The body itself lay motionless under a galeberry bush, large blue berries dangling over and scattered around a dead man in studded green armor sprawled out on his back. Though his attire was largely unblemished, a deep, slashing blow had split most of the padding and external ribbing just below the man’s right pectoral in a sweeping arc going from left to right across his midsection. The gash had failed, however, to get deep enough to actually break flesh. What appeared to have killed the man instead was a ragged, deep cut along the edge of his neck, just below the collar on his left side. The wound appeared made not by a blade but something more equipped for gripping and tearing, something that had also shredded much of his arms in quick, deep lacerations like the work of a grain slicer or pack of razors. _Or claws_ , she realized with growing concern. His face, older than hers, but not more than forty, was locked in a shocked expression, mustached mouth still agape and clouded, bushy eyes wide in horror.

Sendra looked away in disgust, unsure of what to make of the scene in front of her, and tried to see if she could follow how he’d gotten there. Much of the blood splatter from his neck appeared to be on the grass and plants surrounding the body, telling her she was where the final blow must have been made. His hands and arms, however, seemed to bear defensive wounds, suggesting the fight did not begin where it had ended. Lacerations to the outside of his forearms and inside of his palms were clear signs he had tried to raise his hands in a bid to shelter himself from an onslaught of strikes. A quick check about the area and Sendra found another bush nearby with snapped branches, torn cloth and more blood. She realized he must have been on the run before being overtaken, and began her search for how he’d come to fall by the stream. She followed the path of broken plants and blood drops from there, moving quietly for another hundred yards until she located where the fight likely began. At this new spot, grass had been flattened and a small tree knocked over violently, denoting some form of lengthy tussle. _Perhaps a wrestling match on the ground? A surprise ambush?_ A sword lay cast aside, the blade chipped as if it had struck something heavy and been deflected back. The blade’s upper half and edges were still tinged with dried blood. Clearly it had much purchase, but failed to stop whatever the attacker was in time. 

After sniffing the blood, she noted it smelled acrid, almost sour in tone. It was unlike the blood of any beast the hunters in clan Lavellan had ever brought back. Looking about for more clues, Sendra found little else that gave evidence to how the dead man had begun the fight or from which direction his attacker had come from. She frowned in anxious disappointment, not liking the idea that someone- or some _thing_ \- was able to ambush an armed man in the middle of the woods and then vanish without a trace. Kneeling down, she touched some of the trampled grass, looking for details. Against one of the folded blades, she spotted a touch of mud, out of place with the rest of the soil nearby. She snapped off the piece and brought it to her nose, hoping to catch a scent of anything out of place. Wafting in the smell, she detected peat, and some type of mineral that was unlike anything she’d seen or smelled in the area. It was deeper, richer, almost carrying a note of volcanic rock or ash on the last of its aromatic notes. 

Hoping to put together the clues, Sendra conferred with the small map she’d ‘kindly removed’ of the overcharging merchants that she’d boarded with on her journey to Ostwick. After a moment getting her bearings and scanning over the outlying regions around her, she spied notes in the margins that spoke of a small marshland, at the foot of Denerim itself. The area was near the foothills of Dragon’s Peak, one of the few active volcanos to be found nearby, and was colored in with green and mottled brown flecks, the words “Shite bit of bog, travel hard,” written alongside by the map’s previous owner. The region would be rich in minerals and likely slaked in dark oozing mud, a likely candidate for the mud in between her fingers to originate from. The only problem was the marsh appeared over a day’s travel further southeast. _Odd_... she thought to herself, _How did it get so far without being washed away_?

Returning to the body, she checked the clothes and boots for similarly matching splotches of dirt or ash but found nothing. _It’s not from him. Is it from the attacker?_ she wondered to herself. If it was, the smell would be an important one to remember- along with the acrid blood- to keep in the back of her mind as yet more indicators of potential danger lurking around her. These would be stored alongside other, more common hallmarks of danger, such as the smell of bear’s fur, deathroot blooms and ghoul’s flesh taught to her by her overprotective parents. Every Dalish had to learn to read the natural warning signs of the forest, and Sendra was no exception. She knew the trees, knew how to read their stories, and predict the futures of the forests’ animals based purely on the clues born in the wind. Yet…that was in her _own_ forest, she had to remind herself. This new place, with its different plants and animals, dead bodies and weird mud… She wasn’t so sure she could be quite as clairvoyant with the natural order any more. She felt disconnected, estranged, a wanderer out of place in a land that wasn’t quite right. _All the more reason to stay on edge_ , she told herself.

She’d lingered long enough with the body. Sensing her luck was due to run out if she waited much longer for a scavenger- animal or human- to find it, Sendra moved back in to the thicket and left the remains be. Feeling guilty for not offering a proper burial, she reminded herself she couldn’t afford the scent of blood on her clothes, or the time it would take to find a suitable space to make the dig. To ease her conscience, she instead clutched a small token to Mythal hanging about her neck and whispered a silent prayer for the human, asking the goddess to help him find safe passage in to the beyond and comfort the grief of his loved ones. Even if shemlen didn’t believe in the ways of the Dalish, she still felt the dead universally deserved some token of respect, and this man would have none but her to see his passing through. With the prayer done and her conscience slightly eased, she melded back in to the trees of the forest as silently as possible, focusing each footfall to a cautious and reserved rhythm. 

By the time night fell, her legs ached and her spine was stiff from trying to measure every step. Though her father had taught her to navigate by the constellations above, Sendra was weary from a day spent fighting both her mounting worry and the innumerable bramblethorns she’d had to pick through that had peeled and clawed at her skin the entire way. She set her pack down with an exhausted sigh in the first clearing she came to, and set to making a small depression in which to lay her bed roll. A fire was too dangerous given the events of the day and her unwillingness to be discovered while alone. As darkness spilled around her, she instead pulled the simple covers of her Halla-skin blanket tightly around her body as the only form of comfort and warmth she could afford. Finally off her feet, fatigue settled in to tiredness, and she could little more than solemnly chew on a handful of small berries and nuts she’d picked while walking throughout the day. It was quiet and serene finally, with no more birds calling and no more insects. She sat in piece finishing the last of her meager her food and simply stared in to the night, her mind too tired to think.

One by one, little golden lights began to flicker and appear in the gloom around her, bobbing and floating off the ground in complete silence. They gracefully flashed and flickered, shimmering in seeming unison as more and more lit up and took to the air around her. After only a few minutes, it seemed there were as many points of light in the trees around her as stars in the sky. _Fireflies_ , Sendra recognized with a soft smile. She loved fireflies, and thought of them as a symbol of hope and good luck, a sign that she wasn’t lost and alone there in the dark, miles from home. “ _Ma’sulevin_ ,” she whispered softly to the little lights, “my guides, lead me to where I am supposed to go. Thank you for keeping me safe in this dark place.” With that, she laid her head comfortably in to her pillow and closed her eyes, the tiny spheres of light playing and dancing over her in a myriad of silent, golden shapes. Sleep came, and she was at peace.


	3. Among The Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vaalen and Sendra finally meet (rather abruptly), and are immediately thrust in to a hairy situation (hue hue hue). Vaalen shows the nature of his character to Sendra, but is it endearing or suspicious? Sendra must also tackle the recurring theme of self-confidence and the nagging words of her past holding her back.

### Chapter 3

**27th of Harvestmere**

**9:40 Dragon**

Cold, fresh morning air against her face. The chirping, complex melody of bird song. The vague orange glow of morning sunlight across her still-closed eyes. As consciousness came creeping in to Sendra’s half-asleep mind, the details of the forest around her touched off her senses one by one. She stretched out her arms and legs with a gentle grunt, feeling the stiffness of her muscles loosen around her. _Gods this bed roll feels so good…I could lay here forever…_ she thought groggily, rubbing her head in to her pillow like a kitten nuzzling its mother. Scrunching her knees up to her chest even more, Sendra curled in to a ball underneath the covers of the warm Halla-hide blanket in protest of rising, still exhausted from the worry and strenuous hiking of the day before. _It’s just sooo toasty under here_. She let out a content sigh. Finally finding herself waking up on solid ground again, rather than the tossing and turning hull of the rickety old merchant barge she’d been confined to for the week prior, was proving to be even more incredible than she remembered. 

_Just another hour,_ she told herself wearily, sleep creeping its way back in to her mind, _you’ve earned this._ _Just…a little bit longer to rest, and then you’ll…get up…and…_ Unconsciousness was mere, blissful moments away.

* _Poke*_

Sendra scrunched up her face, irritated at the jab to her shoulder. “Hnng” she grumbled, curling her knees even tighter to her chest. She didn’t want to get up! _Let me sleep…gods…_ she thought grumpily, scowling and trying to return to her dreams of a rugged, mysterious hunter with a dark and torturous past, beckoning her to free him from the bonds of his terrible-

* _POKE*_

 _GODS. WHAT. UGGH._ Sendra was fully awake now, and angry. As her brain turned back on, she swatted the intruding object away from under the blanket with a surly “ _Ma halam!_ ” and pulled the covers of her head in abject defiance. _Can’t I just lay here and be left alone for one measily day!_ she thought to her self with a twinge of self-pity. _Whoever this is better have a very good excuse to get me up, because it’s not like there aren’t---_

The sudden clarity that there shouldn’t BE anyone else struck her thoughts like a thunderbolt, flinging her eyes wide open in panicked shock. For a moment, she just lay there, motionless, blanket still pulled over head, body still wrapped up in a small, fetal position, daring not even to breath. Her mind raced with what to do next. Did she burst from the blanket running, leaving her bag and hoping to lose them in the trees? What about fighting? How many were there? How many could she take? Who were they? _Gods, where did I put my staff last night?_ A dozen panicked concerns swam around her mind as she tried desperately to formulate a plan for survival. _What if it’s just another traveler, lost and asking for food? What if it’s a dozen armed Templar, toying with me and waiting for me to arise so they can see the look of fear in my eyes when I get up? I have to be strong, there has to be a way…think Sendra! You need a plan, you can’t just keep laying here, there has to be a—_

* _PPOOKKEE*_

This time, the jab was much harder than before, almost making her whole body shift slightly in the dirt and nearly breaking the skin at the point of contact. The pain stung her eyes, and she slapped her hand instinctively over the spot to cover it from further harm. A mix of fearful anger and cold admittance that she needed to face whatever it was that wanted her attention gripped her, and she slowly pulled the blanket down past her eyes to her chin and peered out of the blanket to face the newcomer. He didn’t prove hard to spot.

Laying less then a few feet away in the dirt, the face of another elf quickly caught her eye. He was male, not much older than herself, and laying flat on his stomach sporting a short, collared black jacket with tan leather pants. In his left hand, he held what appeared to be a snapped off twig, presumably the offending object that had woken her up. In his right, laying against the ground, was a tremendously large, two-handed sword, the blade jutting off to Sendra’s right to avoid falling over her face. His hair was blonde, with ashen color streaked by silver, short in back and parted to one side as it came forward, hanging down in the front in long, seperated bangs. Dark cobalt blue eyes met her own in a look of sincere concern and worry, while his strong chin and jaw, covered in a thin coating of what appeared to be stubble, stretched taught as he made a seemingly angry, almost annoyed expression to her and jerked his head silently to the left, nodding off to the side. Perhaps most notably of all, this new elf sported no _vallaslin. A city elf...in the middle of the forest..._ Sendra thought. 

Confused, and still more than a little bit terrified, she mutely followed his gesture, slowly raising her head off the pillow and out of the blanket to carefully look down past her feet for whatever he was gesturing at. She could see the familiar mass of bushes and thorns, the same kind which had so plagued her travels the day before, still pressing in around her little clearing. Just beyond, the thick, tall trunks of leafy elms, pines, and aspen worked together to create the same shadowy and wild, green understory that had been her companion for the last twenty-four hours. Her pack lay on its side, just to her left, while her staff sat propped upright, leaning against a tree, barely a foot beyond her grasp. _Damnit_ , she told herself spotting the staff outside her reach. A small ray of light found a pocket in between the overlocking mesh of branches and leaves, and shone down in a single, golden ray just beyond her toes illuminating a little fuzzy caterpillar, working fastidiously to cross the narrow patch of dirt she now called camp. Nothing seemed readily out of the ordinary. Whatever the other elf was motioning too wasn't apparent.

She looked back to him confused, eyeing the stranger with a look of extreme suspicion. Seemingly frustrated, he rolled his eyes and repeated the gesture, this time emphatically tilting his head and arching his brows with a look of strained concern back in the direction she had just been watching. He seemed annoyed, anxious, even a little bit fearful, but Sendra was sure she wasn’t feeling any less upset than he was, especially since he had so carefully managed to get the drop on her AND had a rather large sword gripped to his right hand. _He can make all the agitated looks he wanted, what reason do I have to trust you? Then again... if he was going to use it…why not just cut me down now…the blade could easily reach me… Why is he trying to get my attention, and yet not saying a word?_ No part of the situation made sense. Begrudgingly, Sendra finally erred on the side of looking aside one more time.

Tossing a narrowed, distrustful glance to him, hoping it would be enough to convey she was still cautious of his presence, Sendra looked back past her feet. For a moment, everything looked the same as it did before, as it had all day yesterday, and she felt convinced he was playing her in some ruse. The trees were still there, as were the bushes, vines, thorn and leaves. Nothing had changed, save for the position of the little caterpillar, who was now a few inches further ahead. Just as she was getting ready to open her mouth to curse the other elf for his impromptu and unwarranted intrusion, she noticed the difference she had been missing- the birds had stopped calling. The forest had grown eerily silent, as if holding its collective breath. Instinctively, her Dalish upbringing kicked in and she realized what that meant. _Something is hunting nearby. Something big._ Even as the thoughts formulated in her mind, she heard the sharp intake of air just beyond the trees- a loud, deep snort of something wafting the air greedily and reading the scents it offered to the fullest.

 _Gods, its huge,_ her mind told herself before she had even fully processed her disbelief at just how big of an animal it had to be able to draw so much breath in at once that audibly. Another deep snort, and a cracking of branches and falling of leaves reached her ears as something massive began plodding through the brush towards her direction. Fear overtook the small elf’s body as her pulse picked up drastically and muscles tensed, screaming for action. As if by reflex, she found herself moving out of the blanket and towards her staff in one lurching motion. She brought herself to her knees and extended a hand for the object, inches from being able to grab it, when she was tackled bodily from behind. The other elf had wrapped his body around hers in a tight hug and leveraged his weight, rolling the two of them over in the dirt and off to the side in to the base of a bush. He clasped one claw-gloved hand over her mouth, muffling her shout of surprise while putting the other to his lips, shushing her like an adult silencing an over-talkative child. 

“Shhh” he hissed almost angrily. 

“Mma ma mout ma maff?” she whispered back, her request for her staff garbled by his palm.

He shook his head and put his other hand to his lips again in a silencing fashion before peering over her shoulder out in to the clearing, tension etched across his face. Sendra looked as well, peering through the leaves of the bush in which they hid, dread growing as heavy footfalls of whatever it was lumbering closer to the camp got louder and louder. Suddenly, the bushes where the he-elf had earlier been directing her to watch moments before parted and a giant wall of brown pushed its way in to the clearing. 

It was a bear, or more precisely, just the head as Sendra noted in startling terror- the rest of the body took several more seconds to come in to view. This beast was humongous, easily twice the size of any bear she’d ever seen before, with a head as wide as a man, and forearms that supported a frame double the length of a horse. The creature was gigantic, with long brown hair hanging down in thick, wirey mats from its tremendous girth, and as it sauntered in to the small opening in the bushes, its hulking frame filled the entirety of the space. Thick, drooling jaws sat slightly agape revealing rows of yellowed, curved teeth each at least as long as a man’s finger while the massive skull swung back and forth over the ground in a side to side sweeping fashion, nose snorting and huffing, ceaselessly searching for clues about its prey. She could see the powerful jaws moving hungrily, chomping up and down slowly, as if the animal could almost taste its quarry and was imagining the sensation of devouring a kill, practicing the art of crushing bone and chewing flesh. _Her_ flesh, Sendra realized with gripping horror.

A massive paw and ragged claws the size of daggers came ripping down on her pack as the animal reached the bed roll, spilling open the contents and nuzzling its giant snout in to the torn fabric. A moment later, it jerked backward, tearing out the large dark robe she’d worn on the boat and in Ostwick for protection, shredding the cloth in to strips. Over the next few seconds, it reduced the outfit to threads, spitting out tattered, frayed mouthfuls like so much hair from a plucked deer. Obviously dissatisfied, the beast snorted loudly and buried its nose back in to her pack before pulling its head out again a moment later, this time with her water pouch in between its massive slobbering jaws. In a single, gut wrenching crunch, the sack erupted as the teeth slammed shut, and her entire stock of water splashed over the beast’s lips and down its throat. _Damn… there goes all of my reserves_ … Sendra thought with a sinking realization. 

The beast’s small, dark eyes looked about the shredded bag and bed roll for a moment, seeming to understand that there was little else to bother with, before looking up to scan the rest of the clearing. Sendra’s heart rose in to her throat as the beady orbs moved over the bush where the two elves laid hidden. Her breath stuck in her chest and body froze, while the male elf, his arms and legs still curled around her, followed suit, tightening his grip and pulling her slightly closer to his chest with a sharp intake of breath. At this distance, the smell of the great creature’s fur and stench of its hot breath hit her nostrils, and she was overcome with an aroma like that of rotted wood, cinnamon and carrion blended together in the most unpalatable of ways. For a moment there was only the beast’s eyes staring directly at _her_ , the rest of the world vanishing from perceptibility and focus as she looked directly in to core of the monster. She was mesmerized and horrified all at the same time, and for a moment was even convinced that she could make out the distorted projection of her own face in the reflection of the creature’s eyes, petrified and white with fright. After what seemed like an eternity, the eyes shifted again to another bush, and the massive head swung away with a frustrated grunt, giving Sendra a chance to relax her muscles just an inch. The bear searched the next bush in the same way as before, then another, and another, turning slowly to eye the edges of the clearing as it stood before them, huffing and panting. 

Apparently satisfied that its meal had escaped, the beast tilted its nose backward in to the air and sniffed again, seemingly catching the odor of something else intriguing, and started to make a few tentative steps forward, away from where Sendra lay prone. The heavy footfalls shook the ground slightly as it moved, the vibrations rattling the leaves with each step of its heavy girth like a soft breeze. _Oh please…go…GO,_ Sendra heard herself pleading silently in her mind. _I’m just a scrawny little elf. Not even a mouthful. Go on, you could find so much better out there…please…_ The beat walked a few more few more feet away, then stopped to sniff once more, head still turning to and fro, senses working to triangulate the location of whatever it was that caught its attention, seemingly unsure of which morsel of food to devour first. _No! NO! Please…Gods, don’t find me,_ her internal pleading continued. Deep, resonant huffs of air almost seemed to echo from inside the animal’s chest as it searched the wind, judging, reading the cues, hunting for signs of its quarry with an almost desperate hunger to its gaze. Seconds ticked by in agonizing limbo as the giant snorted and grunted, looking for all the world like it was torn on which direction to take. Then, mercifully, the great bear took one more step forward, and then another, turning again slowly ninety degrees to the right, until its incredibly wide hips and huge back legs were facing the bush. 

For a moment, Sendra dared to hope, dared to dream that the beast would move away and lumber off in to the darkness of the forest and let her be. For only a moment, hope seemed to shimmer like a wisp of potential, tantalizing close and almost real… Then, without warning, the bear turned around completely, and began to walk straight back at the bush in which she hid. Before she could even react to the flood of panic, the huge right front paw rose and fell a foot away from where her head was laying, the claws biting forward, digging in to the soil just under her nose. _This is…this is it. This is my end. I-_ Sendra thought numbly as her mind went blank, the great bear’s left paw rising into the air to come forward in a relentless march of unceasing power.

_SNAP. CRUNCH. CRASH._

The second giant clawed foot slammed down through the bush and landed mere inches behind her, tearing a hole in the tangled canopy of branches above her head, letting light come pouring in all around. Twigs and leaves rained down from above, cascading over her body in a clutter of debris that caught in her hair and stuck to her clothes. Sendra closed her eyes, wanting to scream, sure that at any moment, two terrible jaws would come swooping down and close around her waist, lifting her helplessly in to the air and biting in her half with a horrible crunching sound. This wasn’t the way she wanted to die, not like this, not helpless and terrified at the feet of an unstoppable mountain of teeth, muscles and claws. _Gods please…_ she whimpered as she choked back a sob in to the gloved hand of the other elf still holding her tightly, trying to keep her quiet. 

As if in response, the male elf rolled himself forward, pushing the pair over and shoving Sendra on to her belly, face down in to the dirt, his body landing on top of her. Before she had a moment to rationalize the gesture, the humongous bear’s back right foot hit the ground exactly where the two elves had just been with a wrenching thud, leaves and twigs splintering, shards of wood flying in to the air under the force of the weight. Sendra noted how easily those chunks of wood could have been chunks of _them_ if they’d acted any later.The back left foot of the great beast followed suit, picking up and over them as the tips of the claws grazed across the back of their legs, swinging forward in unison with the rest of the animal’s stride. As the bear finished stepping over them, she realized in shock that they hadn’t actually been devoured.

Footfall after footfall, the sound of the animal’s steps got steadily quieter as the two elves remained frozen, still laying prone to the ground, too terrified to move. Only after they hadn’t been able to hear the giant bear’s heavy breathing or the crack of branches under its enormous weight for several minutes did they begin to relax. The other elf finally rolled off of Sendra and on to his back with a groan, gasping for air as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time. Sendra quietly picked herself up to her hands and knees, noticing the way they still trembled under her weight, and let her head droop below her shoulders. She knew she was in shock, still finding it hard to hard to believe that she was even alive, let alone that she was in one piece, or that, by and large, she wasn’t even hurt. Her head was still swimming with a flush of blood, and for a moment her stomach pitched, suddenly overcome with the nerves of the moment. Doing her best to stifle a gag, she began to feel grateful that she had eaten so little the day before as she laid her head down, forehead coming to rest against the cool of the ground. 

“Ok, seriously, what the _HELL_?!” came the male elf’s agitated voice between wearied breaths, snapping her back to focus. “Are you intent on getting eaten, or are you just the world’s heaviest sleeper?” He had sat up, one arm supporting his weight, the other draped lazily over a bent knee for support.

His sudden outburst of sarcasm at their near-death experience took her off guard, and she blinked incredulously for a moment before a burning knot of anger found its way rising to the surface. _How DARE he?! Can’t he see I almost just DIED?! How was any of that MY FAULT?!_ “Excuse me?!” she replied in a high pitched, infuriated voice. Her head cocked to the side to shoot him a look of surprised anger, but didn’t leave the clutter of leaves and soil on the forest floor, still worried about the fortitude of her stomach. “YOU were the one who brought it in to my camp! What were you trying to do, huh? Hope that the Dalish mage somehow saves you from the intense screw up that you so obviously got yourself in to?!”

“MY screw up?!” came his immediate reply in its own incredulous tone. “MY screw up…right…ok, because that definitely WASN’T me back there who was trying to wake you up for SEVERAL MINUTES with a stick at GREAT PERSONAL HARM when you just kept a snoring along even while an ancient GREAT BEAR was BRINGING DOWN THE FOREST FEET FROM YOUR SLEEPING ROLL, was it?!” 

Sendra sneered at his response in frustration and straightened up her posture to leverage another volley of remarks. Before she could speak, however, his words sunk in, and she instead let her mouth close silently. There was a truth to what he was saying, she couldn’t deny, even if his aggressive sarcasm was not what she wanted to hear. _He could have just let it kill me in my sleep_ , she realized ashamedly, _that would have given him time to escape. Why didn’t he do that?_ _He_ _also tried to wake me without drawing the animal’s attention, even though it put him in harm’s way_. _He even tossed us in to the bushes instead of letting me go for my staff which meant risking getting spotted himself. What would have happened if I’d actually been able to grab it? I would have just been sitting there, prone…exposed…My magic would have done nothing to something that huge…_

A wave of guilt swept over her. _Gods, I’m just a useless little child._ As the thought burned against her pride, the words of her mother began to play through the back of her mind, twisting the shame deeper. “I just don’t know, Sendra,” the memory echoed. “Are you sure you’re really…good enough to be a mage yet?” _I laid there, helpless, like a fawnling Halla…I just…did nothing…and when it was going to crush me under foot he had to…_ Her mind trailed off, the memory of the huge paws and massive head snorting and drooling above, yellow fangs and hot breath blowing down about her, the sickening smell of rotted meat, and the way the ground shook under the bear’s horrendous weight… The whole scene was replaying itself over and over again in her mind, trapping her focus making her feel dizzier than before. Her mind let out an internal scream, and the pressure in her head seemed to be doubling by the moment. A dull ache manifested itself behind her brow, and she clutched her hands to the side of her head. Before fear could swallow her thoughts any further, Sendra shook her head and tried to slow her pounding heart.

“I’m sorry…” she mumbled, quietly hanging her head again in shame. “What you did back there…you put yourself between the bear and I. You didn’t have to.” Tears stung her eyes as she bit down on her lip. Helplessness, anger, fear; the volatile mixture of emotions felt like acid on her soul.

She expected another glib remark, another disparaging comment of her ability to remind her of just how truly unprepared and unready she was to face what lay in store. _You deserve it Sendra,_ her mind told her. _You sit here and take your punishment you foolish little girl._ Instead, the he-elf simply sat there quietly, studying her as she wracked herself with self-loathing. Finally, he sighed and brought himself up to his feet, dusting off his pants and short, dark jacket before moving to stand next to her. _Wow… he is TALL_ , Sendra found herself thinking abruptly, noticing for the first time, now that he was standing, that this he-elf was a good foot higher in stature than herself, easily dwarfing the hunters with which she’d grown up. His angry face had shifted to a mix of worry and concern, and as he reached where she was sitting, he squatted down to a less intimidating level. 

“Look…that wasn’t…fair. I’m sorry. Are you, um….are you ok? It didn’t knick you anywhere did it?” he asked, his voice softening to a lower, smoother, and more tentative tone. 

Sendra blinked for a moment, his awkward attempt to change the direction of conversation catching her off guard. Before she could react to the approach, his eyes shifted to check over her body, his gaze moving down across her face and arms seemingly looking for injuries. He raised a hand and gingerly brushed away a leaf stuck to her forehead with a gentle pinch of his gauntlet’s pointed fingers, before sliding her bangs aside to help her see with the same delicate carefulness she would have expected from Keeper Istimaethoriel herself. He then allowed his eyes to move down her body, looking over her arms and hands before glancing over her legs and then behind her shoulder. The impromptu examination of her features left her blushing, and instinctively she brought her hands up to her shoulders and wrapped them tight, as if to conceal her body from further scrutiny.

Immediately realizing his _faux pas,_ the taller elf blinked wide and stood up again to distance himself from her, color beginning to flush to his cheeks. “Uh, yea, uh, so…there was no blood or awkward lumps or anything. I mean, no bumps that seemed to be bad. Breaks. There was no breaks.” He closed his eyes and winced, shaking his head for a second at his own fumbling of words. Sendra blushed further, but couldn’t help but feel a small smile begin to creep in to the corners of her lips. “Nothing besides a few tiny scrapes and awkward bits of bark and leaf stuck to your clothes. A real miracle,” he finally ventured, this time trying to look as professional as possible. 

“I-I guess so. I mean, I can’t feel anything out of place, but…there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong,” she said in agreement, her voice still quiet with a pang of shyness. She let go of her shoulders and held her hands in front of her to check. They were as he had said, a tad bit dirty and with a few scrapes, but otherwise alright. She also noticed she had stopped shaking.

“Whew…” The male elf relaxed slightly with a little a sigh, before coughing and straightening up again immediately. “I mean, uh, good. That was…a hell of a lot closer than I would have liked. While we’re still lucky, why don’t we get your things and get moving. I don’t want it doubling back for a second shot at breakfast, ok?” 

“Yea…” she nodded in numb agreement. He held his hand out and helped her to her feet. They spent the next few minutes putting the still-slobber ridden remnants of what remained of her belongings back in her bag and trying to find a way to close it before giving up. 

“There’s less bag left to cinch close than there is thread on the ground. I’m just going to go get mine, ok? It’s only a few yards away. I should have a spare cloak you can make a bundle with. Stay here, and I’ll come right back.” With that, the he-elf grabbed his large sword off the ground and slid it in to the sheath along his back, turning to leave. 

For a moment, panic welled inside Sendra as the thought of being alone with that… _creature_ …still roaming about came to mind, but she pushed it down quickly. _You’re Dalish. A member of the clan Lavellan. You’ve been raised in the forest your entire life. You are at home here. Quit acting like a lost shem and get ahold of herself._

“Yea, ok, I’ll be here,” she meekly offered in reply. _Stupid…_ she thought. _Of course you’ll be here, where else are you going? Seriously Sendra, snap out of it._ She was acting half her age, and she knew it. She had to pull herself together, before this stranger thought of her and her clan as completely incompetent…if he didn’t already. In a few weeks, she’d be surrounded by some of the most important and powerful people in all of Thedas. She couldn’t afford to be giving off the impression that she was some spring-fresh flower, plucked straight from the aravel and incapable of forming actual words in common tongue like some vagrant of the wilds. She had to live up to her peoples’ expectation of her, not down to the stereotypes of the shems. 

The taller elf disappeared in to the thicket of bushes, vanishing after only a few steps, before reemerging moments later with a bulky brown backpack. Dropping it next to her, he opened the bag up and rooted around for awhile until he removed a simple hide cloak, probably worn for rain or weather protection Sedra figured. Handing it to her, he stood back up and walked to where the bear had exited the small clearing, studying the ground and broken branches. Sendra took his positioning by the hole the bear had punched in the bushes as a sign he was eager to get going, and she worked as quickly as she could to get her things in to the cloak and wrapped. When she felt comfortable she had a solid enough knot at both ends, she stood up and finally retrieved her staff, slinging one loop around the end of the wood. Using it to carry her bundled goods, Sendra propped the staff against her shoulder and nodded to the other elf that she was ready.

As he turned to face her, dropping a mud stained leaf he’d been examining under his nose, the loud crack of a breaking branch suddenly rang out a few dozen yards away in the forest. A bird squawked in alarm and flew in to the canopy, followed by another, then all went silent. Both elves went rigid, heads spinning toward the source of the noise, listening intently for any further sound that might betray movement. Then, wordlessly, the male elf walked forward to Sendra and tugged at her arm, motioning her to the other side of the clearing with a tense look. She needed little more encouragement, and together, they crept in to the shadows of the bushes, disappearing from sight as quickly as they could muster without making a sound.

**A few hours later**

They had spoken little since that morning, mostly out of fear for making undue noise and revealing their position, sure, but also because, Sendra sensed, there was a general degree of discomfort with her presence emanating off the taller male elf. She couldn’t place it exactly, but the way he occasionally tossed awkward glances over his shoulder, or shifted his pack and opened his mouth like he meant to speak before simply shutting it again and shaking his head gave her the impression he wanted to say something, but didn’t know how. As the day wore on, the heat of the midday sun began to beat down directly overhead through the pockets in the leafy overstory, warming the floor of the forest like a clay oven. The air became thick, and a woody, earthy aroma of mildew and rotting leaf litter clung to her nose like the sweat on her brow. Certain by now the great bear had given up any sort of chase, she desperately wanted to slow down, to get her bearings and to ask the other elf what he was doing out in the middle of the forest himself. 

As she struggled with a way to begin the conversation, the constant nagging voice of her mother started again, playing over and over in her mind. “Are you sure you’re really…good enough to be a mage yet?” came the words in incessant, nagging whispers, chewing at her thoughts every time she tried to think of what to say. Frustrated, her thoughts reverted to deciphering the events of the morning prior in a more critical light. How could she have been so exhausted that she slept through the way the ground shook? What was she thinking not even trying to place wards or put up a barrier to mask her presence? How could she not have caught wind of the powerful stench of the animal, let alone hear it coming? Time and time again, her mind grasped for answers only to fumble with the truth. 

In plain honesty, her brain had simply turned off. Yesterday had been the first full day off a week long boat voyage with little rest and a _lot_ of vomiting. She was stiff, hungry, and beat up from pushing through dense thorn brambles and leaves all day. _What did you expect of yourself Sendra? It makes sense you just passed out. It’s ok to admit that,_ a tiny voice tried telling herself. _No, your mother was right,_ came a louder one. _The Keeper sent me out her to die. There’s no way I can do this. What am I thinking? Why don’t I just go back? How embarrassed would my family be that I failed in my task?_ The competing narratives in her head played back and forth, vying for control of her guilt. All morning they danced a duet of frustration, eroding her confidence, and before she knew it she was almost afraid to speak up to the other elf. Instead, she just quietly let him lead.

 _He doesn’t want to talk to a prattling wood elf,_ she told herself. _He’s probably furious for what happened, but is just being too nice to say otherwise. He’s protecting you because you obviously can’t protect yourself. Accept his help for awhile longer and then get on the road and go. Quit making him suffer your incompetence_. Sendra almost doubled over with shame as she walked, picking her way around another jutting frond and dipping to step beneath a fallen tree trunk wedged between several boulders. Too busy internally chastising herself, she almost walked straight in to his back as he stopped dead in the middle of the small gap of branches in front of her.

“Shh, listen,” he whispered, gesturing with his hands to duck as he squatted down towards to the ground. She followed suit, kneeling behind him and peered over his shoulder, perking her ears to catch what he had heard. There, at the faintest edge of her perception, she just detected a noise- laughter. It was hard to tell where it was, but Sendra assumed right away it had to be human. The other elf grimaced and turned to face her quietly.

“You have any comrades out here? Other clan members maybe?” he whispered in a cautious tone.

“No, no one. I’m on my own,” she whispered back.

“Shit…ok,” he said with a frown, before turning back around and reaching up to gently begin pulling his two handed sword free of its scabbard.

Sendra began to immediately get nervous seeing the larger warrior getting his blade ready for a fight, and lowered her own staff gently off of her shoulder. She slid the bundled cloak off the end and gripped the shaft tightly in her hands, mind racing at what to do.

Sensing her shifting weight behind him, the other elf looked over his shoulder to catch what she was doing and noticed the staff held tightly in her hands. He quickly shot her another concerned look and shook his head as he turned back around. 

“No,” he whispered calmly, “you follow this stand of pine down to the left,” pointing with his fingers in a direction away from where they had sensed the noise. “Keep to the thicket, and don’t double back. Keep going southwest. When you reach a small cluster of stone cliffs made of granite, hide there, ok?” He took one of his hands and rested it gently on her own, a reassuring yet pleading look in his eyes. 

Sendra felt confused. _What is he doing? Is he staying here? What is he thinking?_ “I don’t understand, what are you-“ she tried to say, but the male elf raised to her lips, cutting her off.

“Shh. Not right now. Just do this for me, alright? I’m guessing you’re not a circle mage, but right now I don’t think those guys over there are going to care too much. I’m going to get their attention. YOU are going to run.” 

“What? No! You can’t do that! I’ve already put you in too much trouble today as it is! Just come with me, you don’t need to-“ Again, before the words could leave her mouth, another man’s voice lit up the forest, this time closer.

“Barker! You feel that? There’s magic nearby, my veins are throbbing! Get your shield up!” came a gruff, deep voice in a thick Ferelden accent.

“Aye, lieutenant!” came another shout from several yards away from the first. Moments later, the clatter and crack of brushes being hacked away under the brunt of steel started to fill their ears. Behind the first two voices, another voice shouted out, “Templars! To the ready!” and a small chorus of cheers and shouts followed suit.

Sendra’s heart leapt in to her throat for the second time that day, and she jerked back instinctively, looking to run in fear before the tall elf grabbed her wrist and pulled her attention back to his face.

“Hey! Psst, focus!” he hissed to her sharply. “Just do what I say, ok? Go, down there and around those bushes and just stay _low_!” His whispers were faster now, more rushed, and she could see he was growing tense. He snapped his fingers in front of her and looked her square in the eyes, a look of anxious worry spreading between them. “You understand what I’m saying? Yes?”

Sendra felt herself start to shake again, but nodded mutely in agreement. She didn’t know why he was trying to be so noble, but she didn’t have time to argue. The Templars could sense her magics, and there was a group of angry shems barely a hundred yards away coming towards her ready to snuff it out by whatever means necessary. 

“Good,” the male elf nodded, and finished drawing his sword. He turned to glance back over at where the sound of crashing branches and heavy boots was growing louder and louder, getting himself in to a crouch as if he were ready to begin a foot race. His eyes studied the foliage carefully, and she could see him working over a plan in his mind, but to what end she didn’t know. Without looking back at her, he suddenly asked, “Before you go, what’s your name? When I come back to find you at the cliffs, it’ll make searching for you easier if I have to holler.”

“S-sendra,” the smaller elf stammered, fear still growing in her gut.

“Sendra…huh. Ok.” His jaw clenched as one of the Templars shouted a curse, apparently angry that a branch had dared to flick back and strike him in the eye as he pushed past. “Vaalen,” he said after a moment to read the situation. “My name is Vaalen.”

“Now go,” he whispered, shifting his weight slightly and creeping forward, still maintaining a crouched position. “And whatever you do, don’t come back here, no matter what you hear. Just get to the cliffs and wait. If nobody comes after a day, then keeping doing…whatever it was you were doing…” He cocked his head to the side, as if the thought of what she could actually be up to so far out there in the woods perplexed him, before he shook it off and refocused.

Sendra began to slink away in the direction he’d indicated a few moments before, before stopping and turning around briefly. That she was just _leaving_ him there to face a small platoon of fighters clad in the heaviest of armor and largest weapons didn’t feel right. She was terrified, it was true, but leaving him behind just seemed like exchanging one person’s death for another, which wasn’t fair. She felt torn, desperately wanting to get away as fast as she could, and yet… How could she abandon a fight that felt like hers to begin with? Looking back, she spotted Vaalen again, waiting amongst the green like a crouched predatory cat. The male elf sat poised and low, massive sword gripped tightly, his dark blue eyes almost glowing with a fierce, savage look. For an instant, she swore she could almost make out the faintest traces of a red glow etching its way down his arm and through the tips of his gloves, before his eyes shifted and he realized she was still there.

“Be careful…” she whispered back. “Don’t…fight them all...or run. Do something. But not fight.” She didn’t know what to say, but the idea of him alone against so many made her almost as afraid as the thought of herself in the same scenario, and she wanted him to know. She opened her mouth to say more, but a mix of panic and fear froze her tongue, leaving her silent. 

The male elf looked at her silently for an instant, seemingly bewildered at her attempts for words, before cracking a mischievous grin. “Oh, pfft. Who says I’m actually _fighting_ them? Now, get out of here! Why are you still waiting? Go!” He shooed her away with a gloved hand, and turned back to slink forward in to the bushes, disappearing from sight. 

Sendra sat there for a moment, confused by what he meant, before the sound of the Templars’ rapid approaches jarred her back to attention, and she too turned to leave. She picked her way under the edge of a nearby bush and got down on to her belly, crawling hand over hand in the densest part of the brush. Leaves and sticks pulled at her clothes, and small insects skittered away in fright as she scuffled along, hugging the ground. 

A minute later, just as she began to feel like she was moving too slowly to outpace the approach of the armored warriors, she heard the male elf’s distinctive low, smooth voice suddenly give out a shout somewhere in the distance behind her. 

“You know, I was just thinking to myself this morning, I sure do hope a bunch of Chantry sisters in their best skirts come to visit me today. And lo, here am I blessed or _what?_ Look at how lovely all of you little choir girls look in your matching skirts and hats. Now, who thinks they can punish this wicked little knife ear for bedding too many divine mothers?” 

For a second, Sendra couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. _Eugh, WHAT?! Is this the same man I thought was risking his life to save my own?_ Sendra wrinkled her nose at the idea. All pretense of the valiant and noble protector he’d once been in her mind began to wash away as the graphic image of the insult projected itself in her imagination. Did she really misinterpret him so badly? Was he actually just some huge pervert trying to save her so he could manipulate her in to some act of physical reciprocation? _What is he DOING?!_ _Clearly, he isn’t planning an ambush._

Immediately, several human voices erupted in violent protest, followed by a flurry of crashing bodies through the understory. Whatever Vaalen’s plan really was, at least his bid for their attention had worked. “Get the little shit!” rang out from a Templar only a few dozen yards to Sendra’s right, causing her to freeze and lay prone to the ground as low as she could. The holy warrior came stomping past, angry breath hot in his chest, heavy armor clanking at the joints as he barreled through the bushes past her. As she listened to him run by, she noted the bulk of the human forces were now also in hot pursuit of the other elf, and seemed to be moving _away_ from the direction she was going. Appropriate or not, Vaalen’s insult had done what he promised.

Sendra took a moment to check for any further sign of stragglers that may have lingered behind. When nothing reached her ears, she reached one arm forward and began to crawl again, pulling herself along deeper in to the vegetation. As the din of the pursuit faded in to the distance, she dared to rise to her feet and began running. By the time the Templars were fully out of earshot, Sendra was almost sprinting, vaulting logs and hurdling herself around stumps. 

_Are you sure you’re really good enough to be a mage yet?_ came her mother’s words again, worming their way in from the back of her mind. 


	4. Fools Rush In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sendra shows a great deal more strength than she has before, but it doesn't exactly go as planned. Vaalen is the one needing to be rescued this time, and Sendra has to save him, but there's something very wrong that no amount of simple healing spells may be able to cure... Also, breakfast is one of the most important meals of the day!

### Chapter 4 

**28th of Harvestmere**

**9:40 Dragon**

It had taken most of the afternoon to reach the small rock outcroppings Vaalen had promised she’d find, but Sendra had finally done it. Spying them rising above the tops of the trees just as the sun touched the edge of the horizon, the cliffs looked for all the world like a tiny cluster of islands in a sea of green. Sendra found a narrow gap between two stone escarpments and set to making a basic fire underneath a small stone overhang where the smoke and light would be largely obscured. Realizing she’d dropped her bundle of remaining goods that the bear hadn’t destroyed when she went to ready her staff at the approach of the Templars, she sighed and hurriedly built a small bed on a thin blanket of moss and fresh pine needles. Though many Dalish certainly trained to live and survive in the wild since childhood, it didn’t mean every clan necessarily relished the type of lifestyle requiring foregoing all such amenities of the more modern era, and Sendra was certainly one of them. 

_I’m really going to miss that blanket and pillow…_ Sendra thought with a pout.

After a fitful night’s sleep filled with dreams of hungry, dark eyes and shouting, sword wielding phantoms plaguing her journeys through the Fade, Sendra awoke the next morning to a cold, soggy sky and a burned out fire. She groggily rubbed her eyes and rolled over, clumsily grasping for a piece of dry kindling she’d stacked nearby to toss on to the fire without having to get up. With the wood added, she covered one hand over eyes to block out the sight of facing yet another day in tiresome marching and terrifying encounters, and snapped the fingers of her other, muttering a simple spell of flame under breath in grumpy exhaustion. A spark leapt to life within the blackened husk of the previous night’s firepit and bit greedily in to the fresh, dry log now on top. Within moments, it had spread and began to crackle and pop as the flames eat away at the wood, growing taller with each passing instant. A minute later, the fire was swaying and dancing with the light morning breeze, its tips flaring and ebbing with Sendra’s own convictions about whether to get off of her moss bed or not. 

When the growls of her famished belly finally convinced her to do so, Sendra sat up with a groan and peered about. She was in a small, rocky ravine, with steep granite walls on either side and the cold grey of a stone roof jutting out over head from the overhang in which she slept. From her small pocket, she could just see the lip of the far ravine wall over head, past the edge of the overhang, revealing grey skies that threatened rain and cooler weather than what she’d had the days before.

 _Damn_ , she thought, _what a great time to leave my rain cloak in the bushes too…_ Pushing herself to her feet, Sendra grabbed her staff and began to consider her options for finding food. _I could make my way back out of this ravine and look for berry bushes along the edges of these rock cliffs, or perhaps go up top and see if I find any bird nests with eggs. There might be a robin or two up there I could cook against a heated stone…_ The idea of warm food instantly made Sendra’s belly rumble even louder, and she put one hand to her stomach and grimaced, trying to push the delicious thoughts away until she actually had the meal in hand. 

_Eggs it is I guess, but what about this fire?_ she asked herself. _I don’t know if I should put it out again in case of more templars or mages finding me, but…gods, what about Vaalen?_ She’d almost forgotten the taller warrior elf from the day before. Her mind, still groggy and worn out from a rough two days off of the boat and fighting the worries of travel, had only had time to leap at the idea of food first, pushing all else aside. Now that she was remembering how she’d gotten to where she was, worry began to creep back in to her thoughts. _Is he ok? Is he actually coming back for me? It’s been over twelve hours since we parted ways._

Before her worry for her supposed new partner could grow too deeply, however, a twinge of rationalization came to her. _Wait_ , she thought, _why am I actually waiting for him? He’s just some random wanderer I met in the middle of nowhere. And that line he said to the Templars about chantry mothers…ugh. Can he really be trusted if that’s his idea of a rescue?_ _He’s probably just a big pervert hoping for some form of physical reward for saving me from those brutes… He better not be, or I’m going to use this staff for more than just making a little fire…_

As she mulled the consideration over in her mind, she reminded herself he had also put himself in the path of the bear, and again when the Templars came, he had urged her to run while he drew their attention. The man was acting for all intents and purposes like some noble hero, but that didn’t make sense. _He MUST be after something_ , Sendra told herself. _Nobody is nice for free. I’m not so young and stupid as to believe that anymore._ Even as the cynical thoughts formed in her mind, she couldn’t help but notice the flicker of guilt budding its way in the back of her gut for leaving him behind.

After a short debate with herself, Sendra decided to keep the fire going. If Vaalen was coming back, she’d give him another few hours to catch up before she went ahead. As kind as he may have been, she couldn’t afford to delay her own quest. Besides, if he did reach her in time, then she wanted to show him a better side of herself than what she’d demonstrated the day before- stronger, and more self-assured. To that end, she planned to use the fire to draw him in like a beacon and then surprise him, staff drawn, to get some answers out about why he was being so kind. _If he’s expecting something, I want him to know just how capable I can really be. If he’s not, then…well I deserve to know what he’s doing nonetheless._

With a nod of self-affirmation, she set off to find a path up to the rock faces above. Using her small hands and dexterous feet, she found several holds in the face of a series of boulders and began to work her way up, climbing and gripping the stone like a mountain ram. She’d always been fond of climbing as a young girl, and her work with the staff had given her exceptional upper body endurance she was more than happy to put to use in plundering bird eggs along the ravine walls. Within a few short minutes, she found herself grabbing the lip of the cliff and pulling herself up and over. Tired, but fully awake now, she patted herself off and turned around to admire the view. 

There, stretching before her, was the great and seemingly endless expanse of the Brecilian forest, trees as far as the eye could see spanning off to the horizon. The sun rose like a huge, orange ball of glowing warmth in the distance, chasing away the edge of the dark, grey clouds swirling above that had blanketed the sky the night before. Sendra smiled at the thought that there still might be a chance for a better day than one spent slogging in the rain and mud. From her right, a bird call pulled her attention back to the rocks around her. Excited for the prospect of a warm egg breakfast, she quickly turned back around and bounded off to the source of the noise.

**Several miles away**

“Ugh,” Vaalen growled to himself, rubbing the sharp pain that was his left shoulder as he trudged along through forest, ducking under a low hanging branch. Pushing his way bodily through another set of grasping vines and wet leaves, Vaalen shivered slightly with the morning’s cold air, his breath steaming in front of his face, as dew droplets splashed over his face from the disturbed foliage. He hadn’t been able to sleep all night, and had been walking for what felt like days by now. Since finding the younger elf woman about to be devoured by a huge great bear the morning prior, he’d done nothing but avoid getting eaten or avoid getting stabbed, and the lack of sleep was making him care less and less about either potential outcome if it meant a chance to finally stop moving. 

The worst part of it all, though, had to have been the short interim where the pair of elves had actually walked together before finding the templar band bushwhacking their way to Haven. He had been so…so… _awkward_. He could just picture what the younger elf woman must have been thinking in her mind as they picked their way along in total silence through the forest, especially with his unassured backwards glances and inability to frame even one simple sentence. The entire affair had made even Vaalen cringe, so he couldn’t imagine what she had been feeling. 

_Could you be any less creepy?_ Vaalen chided himself internally. _You were leering over her in her sleep. Then you tackled her. Then you didn’t say a THING to her except to yell. To a girl who’s out in the middle of the woods with no friends or family so OBVIOUSLY she’s trying to hide and yet you just…didn’t ask at all what was wrong or how she was doing. THEN you sent her off on her own without any of her things because you wanted to pretend like you were some super soldier capable of taking on a whole group of templars. And what did you get out of all of that? A girl who probably thinks you’re a criminal and went fleeing to the nearest town garrison or band of Dalish hunters the first chance she got to report you, and an up close view of the side of a templar’s mace. Lovely…_

As his only reprieve from the constant reminder of the throbbing bruise the mace had left against his arm, and the fact that his feet were ready to fall off from near-constant running and marching, Vaalen’s self-deprication had grown worse and worse since evading the band of templars. To make matters all the worse, he hadn’t eaten anything in two days and his stomach was ready to crawl out of his throat if he didn’t give it a meal to ease the gnawing hollowness.

Picking his way over a fallen, mossy log, Vaalen checked the skies to gauge his direction. In the distance, he could just see the edges of the sun’s light beginning to paint the underside of the dark clouds a hopeful shade of orange and yellow. Mercifully, the rain which had picked up in the dead of the night a few hours before had largely stopped by now. With day break Vaalen had more to go off of then just a few scattered stars poking through the dark clouds and the orientation of moss growing on the trees. He longed for a chance to finally sit next to a warm fire and dry his clothes, and was eager to get to the cliffs where he told Sendra to hide. As chilling as it had been though, the rain had also been a kind of mercy, dousing the torches the Templars had lit when night fell in their attempts to catch him, and washing away most of his tracks so he could finally break pursuit from the main band of warriors. 

Only one stubborn young recruit had continued the chase in earnest after the rains hit. He had been more of an annoyance than a real worry, Vaalen bemused, just a stupid kid, out to prove his mettle to a bunch of older, patriarchal warriors by taking the head of an elf who wasn’t even an apostate. _Because that makes sense,_ the elf thought bitterly _. Stupid kid…_

He had kept with Vaalen for another four hours in blind, dogged pursuit after his comrades gave up, until the pair were well beyond the lights and sounds of anyone else, two soggy, tired souls in a seemingly endless game of cat and mouse. The young templar clearly had grown up in an area where hunting game was a form of necessity, as he was repeatedly able to stick with Vaalen’s trail despite the older elf’s continued attempts to cover his tracks, double back, or shift direction. Judging by the young man’s accent from the few shouted curses and muttered phrases under his breath, Vaalen assumed he was Orlesian as well, about eighteen or nineteen, and fresh out of on his first full round of duty beyond the walls of his Circle grounds. The ripest age for pride to trump reason in anyone, let alone someone from a country where posturing and ego were part of the national sport. 

At first Vaalen had genuinely been surprised with the kid, even a little humbled, that the boy could follow an elf in the dark _and_ the rain through the middle of a forest. He wasn’t sure if it spoke more to the young man’s talent, or to Vaalen’s failing skill at subtlety, but as the pursuit went on, Vaalen found himself increasingly impressed with the hunter’s tracking prowess. Vaalen had intended to simply outpace the young man, lose him in the dark brush and let him be to return to the rest of the templars empty-handed with nothing but his pride lost as a show of respect. When the hunt passed well over Midnight, however, and Vaalen finally realized he couldn’t shake the boy, nor would the young hunter quit, the outcome necessitated a decidedly more aggressive approach.

Vaalen didn’t enjoy what came next, but he had precious little choice remaining. Weary and exhausted, and unable to spend precious energy creating false trails and weaving across paths to shake the pursuer, Vaalen simply halted his flight and waited for the young knight to catch up. The boy had almost missed the elf standing there, back propped against a tree, casually knocking the mud off the backs of his heels with a stick as the rain came pouring down. The young man’s face was gaunt, exhausted, almost more asleep than awake as he came shuffling around the side of a tree panting. It seemed he too was weary of the race and wanted an end. His mind had been so caught up in the act of the pursuit for so long, it had lost any notion of what to actually _do_ when he caught the elf.

Vaalen had been counting on this.

The boy had taken a few steps forward before suddenly snapping to and realizing what was in front of him. He had jerked stiff for an instant, before cold, numb hands bumbled for his sword, long ago sheathed to save his arm strength and give him freedom to climb over logs. As the boy struggled with the sheath, Vaalen quietly finished dislodging a particularly large chunk of mud from the sole of his boot, and then flung it in to the boy’s face. As it hit with a wet smacking sound, the boy reached up to free his eyes with a startled shout, forgetting the blade. Vaalen could only sigh that such a young, inexperienced warrior had really given him such fits and made him waste so much time and energy in trying to be nice. Then, in one swift motion, he crossed the distance between them and buried a fist in to the boy’s nose. Unable to see it coming, the blow crumpled in his nose and shattered part of his left eye socket. A muffled scream erupted from the templar’s lips before Vaalen took a fistful of the young man’s hair and bounced his head off of a nearby tree. In the span of ten seconds, what had been precipitating for hours was over in a bloody mess.

The boy had still been alive when Vaalen left him there, bleeding out and unconscious in the dark and the rain. He didn’t have the heart to seal the deal with an axe blow or knife to the throat. Instead, he considered it one final act of kindness, giving the boy a chance to wake up and find his way back…if the bleeding in his head wasn’t too severe, or the cold and hypothermia didn’t take him sooner. And of course, with the scent of all that blood, there were always worse things that could befall him in the night…

Still, several hours later, wet and cold himself, and achingly sore, Vaalen had no concern left for anyone but his own person, least of all a young man who had made a bad choice. He had followed a stronger warrior in to the dark, by himself, in the other fighter’s element. _The kid was lucky I didn’t torture him first for information about the rest of the templars in the region,_ Vaalen told himself. _I could have been much worse…maybe should have been…_

“Eh, fuck it…” Vaalen finally said with a sigh. It had happened, it was done, there was no sense letting it darken his moods any longer. The task at hand was to find those damned cliffs and get some sleep by a fire. Nothing else mattered in that moment. Willing himself to keep going, Vaalen made his way down the embankment of a small hill and turned toward the still-darkened western sky. Pushing his way through a bush, his nose caught the intoxicating scent of a warm meal cooked by a fire. Instantly, his mouth began to water and for a moment Vaalen wasn’t sure he was actually smelling what he thought, or simply imagining it all out of wishful hope.

Making his way to the top of another small rise, Vaalen finally spotted the cliffs jutting up above the tops of the trees only a mile away, their tips just catching the first direct rays of the morning sun. Fifteen minutes later, Vaalen finally stumbled his way to base of the rocks and stopped, exhausted, trying to catch his breath. Though he wanted to believe the fire and the meal were from the young elf woman he’d found the day before, weariness from too many botched expectations in his past made him cautious. 

_It could be another group of templars, or a band of mages, or even bandits. In any case, they wouldn’t exactly be happy to find a…ME walking through their camp to pilfer their food. In fact, I don’t even know if that girl really wants to find me in her camp again…_ Vaalen thought as he considered the options.

Though worn to the bone with sleep and fatigue, he finally decided to expend one last excess of strength to climb up the less steep edge of the cliffs and come at the smell of the fire from above, thus giving him the advantage of height to survey the scene. Moving quietly, he picked his way along the rocks, stopping to check for any potential booby traps that might have been left to catch would-be intruders. As he neared the top, he could see a small path that led directly down and in to a ravine where he was sure the fire was laid. Turning away from it, he scaled the side of another nearby rock face and went even higher, hoping to walk the edge of the ravine down within for others. Skirting the edge of the ravine, he finally spied the fire along the edge of a rocky overhang.

 _That’s a nice little camp. And a soft moss bed. And GODS, is that an omelet just laid out there on a cooking stone?! Ohhh…Maker…_ Vaalen’s stomach twisted in to envious knots of ravenous desire. He had to have that meal, his body was almost pulled toward the breakfast with an irresistible magnetism. Catching himself before he went tumbling over the edge of the cliff, he reminded himself to stay alert. _Wait, wait, wait…just leaving food out like that? That screams trap. This isn’t right. Where’s the girl?_

Vaalen unwillingly peeled his eyes away from the deliciously cooked egg and peered around. There were no signs of the young woman, only rocks, small bushes, and the rising haze of the morning dew coming off the ground. Moving a bit further along, Vaalen spotted a tall boulder that would serve as an excellent perch to oversee the surrounding area from. Sneaking up to it from behind, he pressed his back to the stone and cautiously peered over the top, checking to make sure another hadn’t figured the same thing and was laying in wait with a crossbow or daggers to surprise him. Just on the other side, Vaalen’s breath caught in his throat as he made out the sight of a figure hunched over underneath an uprooted bush. _Camouflaged…clever_. 

This was obviously someone wanting to bait him in to the food and then spring a trap…everything he had just been worried about. _Is it the girl? Someone else?_ Vaalen’s mind began to spin with thoughts of what to do. If it was someone else, simply calling out for the girl’s name now would only give away his position and ruin the chance for a quick ambush. If it WAS the girl however, Vaalen could sneak a bit closer to make sure, and then just stand slowly and reveal himself so as not to surprise her. _Yea…slowly. No more creeping around. Introduce yourself properly this time_ , he told himself.

Moving slowly along the edge of the boulder, he slunk behind another set of stones which flanked the camouflaged figure and cautiously peered again. Leaning against the smaller rocks for support, Vaalen cautiously peeked again from the new rear angle. There, along the back of the hidden figure was the same short-cut amber hair he’d seen on the young woman the day before, and the traditional cloth patterning of a Dalish tunic. _It is her,_ he thought with a sigh of relief. _She must be nervous the food would attract more than me. She’s smart. Smarter than I realized yesterday. Heh…her clan taught her well to go through all this effort…and I bet she’ll be willing to share that food now that it lured me in. Man, finally, I catch a break._

A smile spreading over his face, Vaalen pushed himself off the rocks and went to stand slowly and call out for the she-elf in welcome. As he did, one of the smaller stones gave way, and the rock wall he’d been leaning on gave way and crumbled apart with a clattering cacophony of noise. Vaalen felt himself go tumbling forward, trying to catch himself and remain upright. The she-elf spun around, eyes wide with surprise and fear at the sudden action and sound behind her. Before he could protest his innocence, she’d raised her wooden, three-point staff and leveled at his prone form, shouting an incantation of magic. An arc of electrical energy tore from the tips of the staff in a purple, jagged beam of light and connected with Vaalen’s chest before he could blink. White, hot, searing pain and convulsions shook his body.

“Oh gods! Vaalen!” she shouted, dropping the staff to her side, her mouth coming agape at what she’d done.

Vaalen stood there, body tremoring lightly for a moment before he slowly looked down. A smoking, blackened crater had appeared in the middle of his scale-lined breast plate, reddened and blistered skin exposed to light of the growing morning sun. His chest began to feel funny, like it was drawing inwards and unable to move. His fingers and toes began to go numb as his arms and legs felt like hundreds of pounds of weight hung on each appendage.

“Heh…n-nice…s-shot…” he whispered in a pained voice, looking back to the she-elf with a weak smile. Then he felt his legs give out as darkness came over his vision, and he pitched over sideways, his body crumbling against the earth and sliding over the edge of the ravine. 

“ _Fenedhis lasa_!” Sendra shouted to herself as she went sprinting towards the edge of the ravine. Watching Vaalen’s limp form go collapsing over the side, she was certain he wasn’t going to survive the fall. Fear and panic at what she’d done seized her mind, and for a moment she thought about leaping down the edge of the ravine herself before realizing the risk involved. The ravine wasn’t very deep, only about thirty or forty feet, but the walls were steep, and too difficult to control her descent on with the loose stones that made up their sides. 

Running back for her staff, Sendra continued to curse under her breath, still in shock that everything had gone so wrong so quickly. _Why does he always have to come at me when I can’t see him?! What was he doing BEHIND me?! Gods, why couldn’t he just go for the eggs…I just wanted to surprise him so he’d talk!_ Sendra’s thoughts hurled past one another as she made her way back to the trail that led to the mouth of the ravine. A minute later, she was alongside the taller he-elf’s crumpled, awkwardly sprawled form. Dropping to her knees, she placed her ear to his chest, checking for breath.

There was nothing.

 _Ir abelas…ir abelas…_ Sendra’s mind started repeating over and over as tears built in her eyes. She honestly had not meant to attack him with an arc of electrical energy. In fact, she’d never even casted a spell quite that powerful before. Under different circumstances, she would even have been proud that she’d finally been able to actually leverage such magic in to an attack. However, killing another person, let alone one who had repeatedly saved her from harm was not the scenario she could have envisioned for her greatest show of magical ability. 

Carefully cradling his head in to her kneeled lap, Sendra clasped her hands together over him and summoned the rest of her mana in a desperate bid to resuscitate his spirit. She knew that several Keepers and other well-trained mages were powerful enough to actually infuse the very essence of life back in to a body, re-tethering the spirit to its physical counterpart, but she herself had never done it. Keeper Istimaethoriel had never taught her the process, only revealing that it drew much of one’s available magic and had a very narrow window of time in which the body and spirit could be reconnected. Otherwise, performing such a rite invited others, spirits of a darker or more malignant purpose to inhabit the corpse, and was thus too dangerous to try without extreme warrant. 

Sendra weighed the risks for a moment, feeling her energy begin to hum through her veins, and swirl about the forms of the two elves. All she could think of were Vaalen’s eyes, filled with surprise and pain when she’d leveled the spell in to him, coupled with that soft smile he’d had as he’d collapsed over the edge. She’d never killed anyone before, never actually seen death in the eyes of another sentient person, and the effect was horrifying. _All of this is my fault… I screwed up so badly. I can’t afford to keep doing this…I’m supposed to be a Keeper one day, I’m going to be responsible for helping all of my people. How can I be trusted when I keep being such a failure?! Keepers are supposed to save, not KILL!_ Sendra’s magic pulsed with her own fear and anger, the ground underneath glowing a brighter and brighter hue of yellow and white. 

“ _Ir era’harel…_ ” she sobbed to herself. _I am already an abomination. What does it matter if I fail this? I can’t not try to save him..._ “ _Ir abelas Istimaethoriel…_ ” Sendra whispered as she lowered head and placed the palms of her hands directly on to he-elf’s face, cupping it between them. Focusing as much as she could, Sendra attempted to harness the magic she’d built around her and concentrated on sending it through her fingers and across the skin of the other elf. Extrapolating from what she knew about healing wounds and breaks, Sendra tried to picture Vaalen’s heart in her mind, and willed her energy to reach down and in through her hands to touch the unbeating organ. She could almost feel its shape, almost sense the lingering warmth still there, waiting to be reignited, and she tried desperately to flood the space with light and warmth, hoping something would mend or catch with the magic and restart Vaalen’s breathing. 

Just as she began to sense Vaalen’s body accept the first few whisps of her magic and try to mend some of the wounds and breaks, her energy collapsed on itself as the mana flushed from her arms. She had spent too much too soon, and with a sensation like weightlessness, her arms dropped limply to her sides. “No no NO!” she shouted emphatically, realizing the spell hadn’t completed. “Please, come on! I just need a little bit more! DAMNIT!” she screamed in frustration. Tears again flooded her eyes, and in despair, Sendra tried to grip Vaalen’s head again and restart the spell, but nothing took. His head sat listlessly in her lap as her fingers weakly clung to the cooling skin of his cheeks. 

It was too late.

Letting out a soft, mewling cry, Sendra let go and let her hands fall away, overcome with exhaustion and sorrow. _Ir abelas_ … _ir abelas_ … was all her mind could think, pleading as much to Vaalen for forgiveness as to her family and clan, imagining what they would think if they could see what she had done- what she had _failed_ to do. She had failed everyone, and now it was too late to undo the mistakes. 

As her hands fell to the side, the side of her pinky struck something sharp and she let out a yelp. It was Vaalen’s sword, knocked from its scabbard in the fall and laying next to her. Jerking her hand up again reflexively, Sendra brought the finger to her face, watching the blood began to drip out of the wound and down her wrist. As she watched it work its way down her arm, the blood seemed in some small way an act of revenge and justice to her, a sign that Mythal herself had seen what she had done and was telling Sendra that her retribution would not be forgotten.

Through choked tears, Sendra placed the wounded hand to Vaalen’s forehead, letting the blood run in a narrow line over his brow and around his eyes. Macabre as the sight was, Sendra felt compelled to offer a blessing to the fallen warrior, hoping to assuage any feelings of rage or sorrow that would hamper his spirit’s journey through the fade. “ _Mythal’enaste…_ I submit myself to her will on your accord. If vengeance is what your spirit needs, I ask she take it for you upon me so that you may rest…” 

The prayer offered, Sendra tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The thought of now burying Vaalen seemed too soon to comprehend. She was spent on her magic completely, and still reeling from what she had done. She had little energy left to want to do much more than curl in to a ball and cry again, but the thought of leaving the poor he-elf’s corpse out under the sky to rot while she bawled like a young child only served to make her feel worse. _Come on Sendra_ … she tried to tell herself, _you need to do what’s right. Even if you’ve failed as a Keeper AND as a mage, you don’t have to fail as a person. Give him a proper burial according to the people._

She sighed and sniffed, trying to rub the rest of her tears from her eyes so that she could finish crying. A numbing sense of duty fell upon her, and she wiped her eyes clean with her sleeve and moved to stand, gently laying Vaalen’s head on the cool stones next to her. As she rose, she moved to put the cut finger in her mouth, to draw out the loose blood before she intended to wrap it in whatever nearby elfroot leaves she could gather. She had gone several steps with her finger in her mouth, solemnly scanning the area for a spot to begin the burial when she realized she didn’t taste any blood. Pulling her finger from her mouth in surprise, Sendra looked at the wound. It was still there, still a narrow but deep cut to the edge of her finger, but the edges were white and hardly any blood pooled in the recess. 

“What is…” Sendra muttered to herself, examining the finger in bewilderment. 

As she did, a sharp, rasping intake of air came from behind her, like wind blowing through a keyhole. Turning abruptly to face the sound, Sendra froze as she spotted Vaalen’s body on the ground. His eyes had flung open wide, their once deep blue cobalt color replaced with an almost dark crimson color. His face was etched into an expression of agony, yet no noise came from his curled, gaping lips. His back had arched, jutting his chest in to the sky while his hands clenched in to half-closed fists that seemed to claw at the very sky for support. Most startling of all, the streaks of blood she had left along his skin were now glowing with a bright red hue that looked almost like the beginnings of a _vallaslin_ on his face.

“Oh no…” Sendra said with a sinking sensation, “his body has been taken by a spirit…” Reaching for her staff, she raised it in both hands and pointed it toward the corpse, readying the words to fire another spell. As she did, however, their weakness made itself felt and before she could finish the words the staff tip had drooped back toward the ground. No magic lightning came flying across the sky, no sign of fire or magical barrier jumped to life around her, and Sendra realized her mana would give her no more support. _Gods, what do I do now?_

As she watched in horror, the glowing lines of her blood grew in intensity along Vaalen’s skin until they shone like fire light in the shadows of the ravine. Then, as suddenly as they’d appeared, the lines seemed to almost disappear from sight and the glow faded gently away. _No, not disappear,_ Sendra told herself, _sunk IN TO his body…_ As they vanished, Vaalen’s back relaxed and his arms unclenched. His once tortured expression returned to normal and the crimson color of his eyes flushed away, replaced again by the deep cobalt blue. From his lips came a deep, long exhale, and Vaalen’s eyes shut once more.

Sendra, still standing rigid in shock, froze for a moment longer. _Did the possession fail? Did the spirit flee the body, or is this is a trap to get me to approach so it can sring to life and attack? Should I try to burn the corpse before something else comes for it, or do I just run now?_ As Sendra weighed her options, Vaalen suddenly burst in to a fit of coughing and groans, causing her to jump. Rolling over with a wheeze, he continued hacking and tried to get on to all fours.

Without thinking, Sendra rushed to his side and dropped to help him before she could stop herself. “V-Vaalen?” she stammered cautiously. “Is that really you?” 

_*HACK* *COUGH* *COUGH*_ “Uuuuuggghh…gods I wish not…” came his familiar low, smooth tone. 

Sendra almost couldn’t help herself from laughing at his sarcasm, and choked back a nervous snicker before gently putting a hand to his back. She wanted to cry and scream and shout for joy all at once that he seemed to be alive, but she was still wary of getting too close, worried that this whole act was an increasingly elaborate ruse by a demon lulling her in to a sense of safety with Vaalen’s body as a puppet. It wasn’t an uncommon trick in the spirit world, and one she’d seen done in her dreams more than once. 

“Vaalen, you…you were just…not breathing. I need to check that you aren’t…you. Will you keep your eyes closed?” Sendra asked, nervousness hanging on her words.

* _COUGH*_ “Fecking- * _HACK*_ fade-shit woman, you think I’m a- * _COUGH* *COUGH* *COUGH*_ demon?” he said, sounding almost insulted at the inclination.

“Vaalen, you weren’t _breathing_ ,” Sendra pleaded. “And I tried to use a spell, and it was meant to bring back your…your…spirit… And I didn’t think it worked! But then you were glowing, and your skin was red, and your eyes, and-“

* _COUGH*_ “Fine, fine…ok.” Vaalen conceited, head drooped between his arms as he remained on all fours. “Just, make it quick.”

Sendra nodded quietly and shut her own eyes, placing a hand on the back of his head. What she intended to do was extremely dangerous, wanting to peer inside the edges of his mind, where his thoughts lingered and just touched the Fade. It wasn’t a form of mind control or thought-reading per se, but rather a technique Keeper Istimaethoriel had taught her to show whether or not forces were influencing the mind of the subject that came from _outside_ their own thoughts. Sendra had always felt it was like putting your hand in a stream and feeling if the water was still, or whether there was a current. If there was a flow, that meant _something_ was pouring ideas in, or taking them out. While this maneuver couldn’t decipher what that something was, in this case Sendra knew the choices would be relatively few- either he had been possessed by a spirit during the revival spell, or his mind would be clear. The danger was, if something _was_ there, she would know be putting her own mind precariously close to where it had found purchase in Vaalen’s giving it ample chance to cross their consciousness and attempt to dominate hers. Ignoring the risk, Sendra tried to peer through the darkness of her mind and in to Vaalen’s own.

Visions, images, strange sensations began to flit past, too quickly to see or understand. For a moment, she felt worried that without mana she wouldn’t be able to pull off the technique, but her doubt subsided as the sensation of a slowly churning cloud of thoughts and feelings manifested itself under her palm. Using her mind, she projected a recreation of herself standing in a dark room, as if creating the scene with her imagination. Looking down in this new dream-like state, she turned her hand over and focused on what Vaalen’s mind felt like, whether it moved and flowed, or sat still and untampered. Taking shape out of the air above her hand, a thin line of smoke swirled and churned in a slow, spinning circle, growing as it did so, until floating over her upturned palm was an amorphous cloud of that seemed to undulate and writhe. 

Sendra held the cloud of thoughts to her eyes, examining it carefully. Though it spun slowly, the small dark shape did so on an axis, and didn’t feel pulled in one direction or another. The twisting and churning edges she assumed to mean that his mind was reawakening, filled with pain and memory loss that was leaving him confused. Sendra peered deeper, checking to make sure that nothing else could be drawing out or pushing in even the faintest of suggestions, but the way the ball of smoke consistently roiled over and changed shape, she couldn’t be positively sure. 

She brought the smoke cloud closer and closer to her face, until the whole of her vision was filled with the darkened shape gently rotating and undulating before her. Almost mesmerized, she looked in to the very core of the ball and there spotted something odd. Deep in the middle, almost obscured by the thickness of the smoke, there was a tiny glowing light. It looked almost like a cinder, and Sendra had never seen anything like it before. She had practiced this technique on others, young hunters in the clan or with Keeper Istimaethoriel who wanted her to learn and practice so that she could judge with clarity when someone began to act erratically or was deemed “insane”, since oft times hunters walked precariously close to old ruins and risked possession by spirits that still lingered in those places. Yet nothing in what she’d seen in their minds looked anything like this tiny reddish orange light before her now. 

Keeper Istimaethoriel had made it very clear, the strategy of feeling the direction of someone’s thoughts should not- could not- show you with clarity what they were actually thinking. _So what is this thing sitting inside of Vaalen’s mind?_ she wondered. _Why am I able to see it?_

Curiouser and curiouser, she brought the light closer to her, feeling almost an irresistible pull to see what it really was, to feel the light and warmth emanating from its small core, to take it and make it her own. Before she knew what was happening, she had pulled the smoke ball of Vaalen’s mind around her face and was poking her nose down toward the tiny light. The closer she tried to get to the ember, the larger and larger it seemed to get without moving any closer, and the wider the smoke around her stretched. Vaalens thought cloud was spreading and building until Sendra’s mental projection found herself standing in what felt like the eye of a storm, a hundred shapes and noises whirling past with a sound like wind as she put her hands to her face and trudged forward against the spinning vortex toward the light.

Just as the radiant heat from the object started to feel like a warm summer sun against her skin, it flared and crackled with a sound like thunder. Sendra gasped, and dropped to one knee, holding her hands over her eyes to cover them from the now-blinding light as the object spread and grew to twice her height. It seemed impossibly close now, and much bigger than she originally imagined. Caught between terror and desire to know what it was, she stared in to the ball of light as it seemed to take shape in to the form of a huge closed eye. It was so close she could almost reach it, and her will to resist touching it and feeling its energy was faltering. She wanted to know what it was, she wanted to know how it felt, she wanted to hold it and take it and make it hers. _I want…I want that…that **power**_ … Sendra heard her own mind whisper as her fingers reached forward, as if not by her own volition.

The heat was burning her skin, and she could feel the tips of her fingers almost beginning to blister under its intensity. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came, and still her arms felt pulled closer and closer to the eye-shaped ball of light. It was as if she had been caught in a whirlpool of fire that was dragging her forward, and she was _happy_ to let it burn her alive. Just as her fingers made purchase against the excruciatingly hot object, it let out a tremendous, deep rumble and the lids went wide. The eye had opened to reveal a huge, bloodshot, serpentine eye that peered forward and flitted around the swirling cloud of smoke before focusing in on her huddled, kneeled form before it. The same sound that she had once taken for rumbling came again, and this time Sendra realized it for what it truly was- _growling_. She tried to jerk away, she tried to stand and run, tried to scream and flee and cast off the illusion in her mind, but the huge eye held her fast in its gaze. She couldn’t move, and she couldn’t hide, and for an instant there seemed no hope.

Then, two hands gripped her shoulders and jerked her bodily back and forth like a rag doll. 

“HEY! HEY! Wake up! LOOK AT ME!” came Vaalen’s voice, cutting through the sound of the wind and growling of the huge eye like knife. “Sendra! LOOK. AT. ME!”

As he shook her, the vision swirled away as the familiar scenes of the ravine walls came back in to focus. She was still kneeling, but his time against the cool of the rocky ground, her hand still wrapped around the back of Vaalen’s neck and head while he sat in front of her, clutching her shoulders and staring her in the eyes. 

“Hey now…there you are…look at me, ok? You’re back?” Vaalen said with cautious inquiry.

Sendra looked around her surroundings for a moment, taking in where she was and trying to collect her thoughts as her heart came back down from a rapid pulse.

“Y-yea…I’m back.” she muttered slowly.

“Thank the gods…” Vaalen said with a sigh of relief, looking like a weight had dropped off of his shoulders for a moment before he stiffened back up. “I told you to be quick! What were you DOING huh? I thought you were just trying to make sure I didn’t have a demon crammed up my skull?”

His look had shifted to a mix of anger and concern, but his eyes seemed almost apologetic, as if he knew what Sendra had seen. She noted the odd complexion before speaking. “I’m…sorry. That was just difficult to do…because I had so little mana you see? I mean, I tried a revival spell, and I didn’t think it worked, and it took all of my magic. It just…took me longer to get out.”

“Get out? Of what? My head? Believe me, that’s not a place you want to get stuck. I’ve known mages who could do similar before but Maker’s balls woman, if you can’t do it, don’t ask. There are other ways to show I’m not fade-touched.”

“Yea…right.” Sendra nodded, still not fully processing what Vaalen was saying as her mind tried to make sense of the scene. She shook her head, hoping it wouldn’t notice and looked him back in the eyes for the first time since snapping out of his thoughts.

His deep blue eyes were staring worriedly in to hers, and she realized with sudden embarrassment that her hands were still cupping the back of his head, holding his face precariously close to her own. Blood began to flush in to her cheeks and she let go of his hair to turn away, feigning a cough.

“Well, ahem, you’re right, that was reckless. But I had to know, and I didn’t have a lot of time to figure it out in case you _were_ a demon,” Sendra said with feigned nonchalance. 

Vaalen let go of her shoulders, seemingly also away of how close the two had gotten and quickly leaned backward himself.

“Uh, yea. Well, I guess that, uh, makes sense. Just…don’t do it again, ok? I mean now you know that.”

“Of course,” Sendra replied with an over-eager nod and forced smile. 

The two rose awkwardly from the ground and reached for their respective weapons. Sendra couldn’t believe that after nearly killing him and then plumbing the depths of his mind and finding a strange raging eye, here she was moments later, still unsure of what to say. It was as if everything that had happened still gave them nothing to talk about. Looking for a way to break the silence, she turned to the other elf. 

“Uh, so…I’m…I’m really sorry about the whole…shooting you with lightning thing…” she tried to say clumsily, before closing her eyes with a cringe. “I mean, I want to explain. I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t even think I _could_ do that. Honestly. I just wanted to talk, but you came up behind me and it surprised me and then you fell forward and I didn’t know what to do so I acted out of surprise and…then…you fell. Gods, I am so so so sorry Vaalen…”

Vaalen stood there, watching her with an expressionless stare. Sendra could see his dark jacket and tan pants torn in a few places from where he’d crashed down the hill, and the darkened black crater in his chest plate leaving bare the reddened, burned marks of his skin underneath. She felt even more horrible now that the full extent of all the damage he had taken on her behalf was laid bare in front of her, and she pushed aside the image of the great fiery eye as she tried to think of something she could do to help.

“Vaalen, please, let me help you. I mean, heal you. Honestly this time. I can get some elfroot and make a tea, I know that would help. Is that ok?” she asked in a pleading tone, hoping he wasn’t becoming increasingly aware of how banged up she had left him.

“You know what I’d really like?” he asked with a sincere look. 

“Do you still have some of those eggs?”


	5. Hungry Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sendra finds herself frozen in fear again as Vaalen tries to play the hero one more time. When that fails though, what will be the trigger to push her over the edge, and allow her to release the magical potential her Keeper believed she had? When that potential is realized, will she be powerful enough to control it, or will it consume her like so many hungry mouths?

### Chapter 5

**13th of Firstfall**

**9:40 Dragon**

The Frostback Mountains rose before them in a glorious crescendo of stone and snow against the blue sky, like towering fingers of white reaching for the heavens. It was a welcome sight to Sendra, for it signaled the last leg of her long and tiresome journey to Haven, and a chance for some much-needed rest. After weeks on the road avoiding all sorts of mishaps, illnesses and dangers, she was ready to be done with travel, and desired nothing more than to find a tiny inn or small clearing among the woods where she could make a more semi-permanent home around Haven and prepare for the impending conclave.

“Gods they’re a spectacle aren’t they…” Vaalen said as he stood next to her, resting his hands on his hips and admiring the view. 

“Mm,” Sendra replied, still keeping her gaze on the mountains, “there’s nothing to compare to them further north. Truly, I don’t think I’ve seen anything like these before. They’re breathtaking.”

“Yea…” Vaalen said, letting his voice trail for a moment as if still caught in a daydream at the mountains’ beauty before snapping back to attention with one of his now-trademark glib remarks. “Of course, you’re going to get quite a bit more of all that snow and ice when we’re half-way up that ridge there,” he said with a crooked grin and pointed to a particularly steep climb half way up the side of one of the peaks. “We’ll see if you still find it as enchanting then.”

Sendra’s eyes followed his finger up until she found where he was pointing. “Hnnngg…really…” she said in a disheartened tone as her stomach plummeted, realizing just how much exertion and work was really left. The dangers of bears, templars, mages and bandits were things they had been able to fend off with sword and spell, but now this… Nothing could slay hours of hiking knee-deep in the snow up nearly vertical climbs, except Sendra’s own endurance, and that felt like a dulled weapon indeed.

“Is that REALLY the only way?” Sendra asked pleadingly. “Or are you just saying that because you want to see me suffer?”

Vaalen flashed her a grin before folding his arms across his chest. “I’m afraid so. You can go home at any time you’d like though. It’s only… what? A three week hike back to Amaranthine? Yea, you should be there before the new year.”

“ _Mana na dirthera…_ ” Sendra replied with a sideways frown of annoyance. “If you’re not going to say anything helpful, why don’t you keep your mouth quiet?”

“Well, my mouth does many things…” Vaalen began, widening his grin.

“ _MANA. NA DIRTHERA._ ” Sendra repeated emphatically, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks as she shot him an expression of indignant disapproval. 

Despite his exceedingly lewd suggestion, Sendra couldn’t help but finish the stare down with a small smirk herself as Vaalen feigned an expression of innocence. The pair had grown increasingly close over the course of the last few weeks since their meeting back in the Brecilian Forest. After shooting him (accidentally she kept reminding him) with a bolt of lightning, she had spent the next few days trying to nurse him back to health as a token of gratitude for his help evading trouble, and as a means to ease her guilt. Once recuperated, he had offered to keep her company on her journey to the Conclave. Though wary of siding up to a complete stranger, the taller elf had insisted he too was headed for the meeting, and explained how he knew the area would be brimming with mercenary companies looking to hire reinforcements and garner pay as peacekeepers for the discussions. 

“And that’s what you are then? A mercenary?” she’d asked him when he’d told her his reason for traveling.

“More or less,” he’d replied frankly. “I mean, look at me. You must have noticed, I’m not exactly small, but I look like an elf, and I have facial hair…what do you think that makes me?”

Sendra HAD noticed the odd features on him, and had wondered to herself why he was so peculiar, but she had dared not to ask for fear of being rude. Now though, with his seeming permission, she’d ventured a tentative guess, hoping not to offend. “You’re…a half-blood? An elven crossbreed?”

“Exactly. All the lovely features that make me look foreign to the lay-folk, with all of the bruteish overtones that keep me unwelcome by the forest ones too. It’s a bit like being a unicorn, if unicorns smelled like pig shit,” he had said with a sour tone. “Everyone is curious until they see you, and then it’s all ‘Eugh, go away,’ or ‘You’re not welcome here you filthy mongrel’ or ‘Your mother was a whore and your father was too.’ They don’t think I don’t know that last part? Anyway…” he sighed and let his shoulders sag. 

“It’s not meant to be a sob story, I’m sorry,” he’d offered after a moment of silence. “I get work enough as it is, and since nobody wants to claim me, I’m not left paying taxes or swearing fealty to a clan. I get to go where I want and do who I please. Plus, my elven side is just tempered enough to keep this scruff on my chin and jaw at a comfortable five o’clock shadow without having to shave. It’s a rather lovely perk when I think of how lazy I would be otherwise trying to shave myself,” he’d offered flippantly, obviously hoping to conceal any further wounds. 

But Sendra could sense the issue was still one which was painful for him to address. He had pushed his appearance in to the open, and though still wary of striking a conversational nerve, she’d wanted to know more about her potential new travel companion before agreeing to a long term journey together.

“Well…” she began. “Without wanting to sound…offensive-“

“You didn’t begin that sentence with a ‘Hey you fucking mutt,’ so I think we’re good. Please, continue.” He interrupted casually.

“Yes…like that,” Sendra continued tentatively, uncertain if he was attempting to ease the tension she felt or make her aware of a short fuse in his personality. “What DID happen to your mother and father if you don’t mind me asking? Why ARE you alone? I mean, you’ve made it rather clear with some of your other…remarks…that you have bedded your fair share of women. Nothing permanent though? No one to go back to?”

At this line of questioning, Vaalen had fallen silent, and she could see his jaw clench tightly as the pair walked side by side. 

“No,” Vaalen said coldly after a moment to think. “To answer your first question: my mother is dead, and my father is gods knows where doing I-don’t-care-what. He would have me return to his…home,” Vaalen paused again, looking for the words to say, “but that’s not going to happen.” His eyes had narrowed when he finished speaking, and Sendra could see just a flicker of red behind their familiar dark blue, the same kind she’d noticed before when she had entered his flow of thought. 

“As for women,” he continued, shifting his gaze and relaxing slightly, “I’m a passing fancy. An odd bauble. Something unique to look and play with, but not exactly meant for the lasting affair. I’m good at what I do, please don’t assume otherwise,” at this he’d turned and given her a sly wink to which she’d quickly rolled her eyes, “but I’m not exactly marriage material as you might imagine. Nor do your…well…any Dalish welcome someone with my history in to a clan simply on charm and good looks. So, I find a pretty face, a lovely set of hips or a nice soft bosom, and I attend to their needs that their current lords or hunting partners seem pitifully inattentive to addressing. Then I make myself indisposed before anything further can come of it. Usually…” he said, cocking his head as if remembering a story and raising his fingers to his lips before returning to his train of thought. “It’s better that way besides. I don’t get hurt, well…usually, and they don’t get hurt, and I get to broaden my palette for the delicacies of Thedas’s more supple fruits, so to speak.”

At this, Sendra’s face had grown bright red and she’d stammered more than intended before trying to change the subject. Vaalen had caught the flush of color, however, and had chosen instead to press the issue of what was causing her so much embarrassment. 

“Oh, what’s all this red flush on the little rose? Are these novel thoughts to her innocent young mind?” he’d quipped with a wolfish grin.

Sendra glared at him and looked away quickly. She didn’t like revealing her complicated history with the clan, or the difficult manner of coming of age in a group with very mixed opinions of her. Truth be told, she’d had her own share of physical pursuits, as many Dalish did, with some of the young hunters she’d grown up beside. There had also been a fling or two with neighboring hunters from other clans she’d met at the _Arlathvhen_ held the year she’d turned nineteen seasons, and again passing flirtation with even some of the young shemlen boys whose fathers came on behalf of their families to trade with the clan, but such affairs were strictly forbidden by the laws of the clan, and Sendra had been shamed greatly by her mother when word got out. It was something she did NOT wish to bring back up, even in passing. 

“That’s none of your business. I’m not some innocent _da’len_ you know, I’m aware of the business between men and women, and I’ve had relationships before. But, I don’t feel that the likes of _you_ need any of the particulars just so you can flesh out some dirty mental image in your head to mull over all day like a voyeur in a tavern,” Sendra hissed back pointedly.

“Oh ho…what have we here? You’re saying there ARE dirty details?” Vaalen said, his toothy grin widening, clearly relishing her discomfort at the topic. “Well now, how _can_ I let that go? And here I was just fishing for a scrap of personal history, but to find out you have some rather eclectic tastes…that’s too good.” 

Realizing he was spinning her words, Sendra felt her temper snap, and she spun on the unsuspecting warrior, slapping her palm square in to the middle of his forehead, planting a small frost rune to his brow with a slew of angry curses. Vaalen had had enough time to reach up gently and touch the glowing blue mark with a look of surprised bewilderment on his head before muttering, “Well…that was rude,” as the ice ball detonated and covered his head in a layer of frost and white. He’d spent the next thirty minutes trying to defrost his hair while Sendra had strutted proudly ahead, chin held high.

“Let that be a lesson, _harellan_ ,” she’d said with her own devious smile as she strutted past the sputtering warrior as he struggled to peel his eyelids back apart and keep the frost from sticking to his lips. “I am NOT a little girl. I am a woman, and you would be wise to see me as such.” 

Besides all of his flippancy, Sendra had realized that Vaalen had shown no signs of demonic possession, had taken no liberties with herself or her possessions, and had genuinely seemed to want to keep his distance of her at any point she asked for. In spite of her earlier misgivings, she found herself beginning to trust the strange half-elf. He’d shared his supplies, helped her gather food, been a constant set of eyes for potential danger, and was, as much as she hated to admit it, a welcome reprieve to the fear of being alone.

Though he was clearly cavalier about discussing his many dalliances, Sendra didn’t find herself actually being objectified by the warrior directly, if he even seemed to notice her in that way at all. In many regards, it had seemed like he’d put her in to another category all together than romantic interest. For example, when not discussing their own personal histories or agendas, he seemed exceedingly awkward about anything to do with interaction the first few days. Stumbling over words, flashing nervous smiles, and genuinely avoiding eye contact had been the norm until they’d eased in to a more comfortable semblance of one another’s daily routines and boundaries of personal space. Even then, at the fire side camps, he’d sat across from her when they spoke, and in the evening when it was time for bed, he’d offered her a spare blanket and slept on his own side of their shared camp instead of beside her for warmth.

Nonetheless, having another person to be physically nearby, to share in her journey and to keep her back safe when she slept or kneeled down to gather water at a creek was a greater relief than she could have anticipated. She hadn’t thought of it before, but she’d always had the support of the clan, over a dozen sets of eyes at all times all around her as she walked through the woods or traveled to town to help her father trade. Even when she’d gone in to the forest to get away from the worst of her arguments with Keeper Istimaethoriel or her mother, she’d never been far, still well within earshot of at least one or more of the clan hunters, and always along paths she’d traveled well. 

At the time, such lack of privacy had been viewed as an extreme annoyance, like a gilded cage keeping her from knowing what true freedom actually felt like. Finally out in the wild, however, away from anything resembling home, Sendra found herself far more on edge and a lot less able to relax than what she had pictured for her first sojourn out of clan lands. It was a useful skill to be sure, one which Sendra was certain would help her stay alive, but the nagging sense of impending doom was also tiresome and made enjoying the world difficult. She couldn’t imagine trying to make the journey of the last few weeks alone as she’d originally planned. The memory of the huge bear had lingered in her dreams, and the thought that there were other, equally large or vicious beasts about had only exacerbated her fitful dreams of late. In her wanderings in the Fade, her path had been increasingly plagued with visions of huge teeth and dark, hungry eyes. Snarls, growls and roars echoed from shadowed and twisted projections of the woods along paths she didn’t recognize. The scenes increasingly confused and terrified her, making her long for the comfort of a large fire and ring of aravels in which to huddle. 

She had wanted to be brave, to live out the fantasy she’d always dreamed of running away from the clan, making a journey on her own and proving herself both to the clan and to her own self-doubting consciousness that she was strong enough to handle such trials, but the truth… 

_The truth is…maybe they were right…_ Sendra had told herself. 

The thought stung her pride and left a bitter image of her mother’s self-assured face in her mind. 

_But having just one other person instead of a whole clan is still making progress. I can at least show them I don’t need THEIR help all the time. I’m making progress, I have to remember that,_ she tried telling herself, somehow hoping the idea would squash the image of her mother’s smug expression from her mind. It almost did.

Now, standing at the foot of the Frostbacks, Sendra was glad to have Vaalen once again, even as he insisted they get more leathers and wool to pad their armors and chided her for planning to scale a mountain peak in nothing but Dalish tunics and leggings. Knowing she wouldn’t be traversing the titanic peaks of stone and ice alone made her feel less minuscule in the face of their awesome size, and the idea of getting through them, though still exhausting, was much less dangerous and scary a prospect.

“I mean seriously, cloth knee high socks and moccasins? I’d almost think your clan didn’t want you to get there if that’s all they though to give you. Were they hoping you’d find a magic clothing boutique somewhere along the way?” Vaalen asked sarcastically, still ribbing her for being unprepared for the snow.

“They are well aware of ice and snow are, thank you very much,” Sendra replied cooly. “If you remember, I did have other effects to my name, but a certain bossy intruder demanded I drop my effects in a bush while he recounted old love stories with a group of templars and forced me to run.”

“Oh, right. I’m sooo sorry for telling you to run in the face of a group of armed men. Next time, maybe we’ll ask them if they’d like to trade your staff for a set of woolen knickers instead?” 

Sendra shot Vaalen another perturbed look, but focused her attention to finding a path up to the ridge Vaalen had earlier pointed to. Cutting directly across to the ridge looked difficult from where she was standing given a battery of small creeks they’d have to wade, several steep cliffs and a vast field of snow she didn’t particularly want to wade through while still half-wet. 

“Please tell me there’s at least a better way to get up there than just slogging through all of that,” Sendra asked pleadingly.

Vaalen turned to study the surroundings as well before raising one hand over his brow and squinting towards a narrow ravine off to their left. 

“There,” he pointed to where he was staring. “That little break in the mountain side. If we follow the creeks a little further upstream, we might find a shallow spot to ford across on some rocks and then use the ravine to stay out of the bulk of the snow. Should make travel a little easier, but we’ll be out of the sun, so-“

“So it’ll be a lot colder. Wonderful,” Sendra concluded for him. 

“Yea. Seriously Sendra, we should probably break a camp here and hunt for some nugs or hares for you until we can sew up some sleeves and pants. If we’re lucky, there might even be a ram or two. We really do need some warmth,” Vaalen offered, this time all pretense of his chiding tone slipping away and replaced with a more serious and concerned one. “Call me mother hen all you want, that’s nasty business up there, especially if a storm kicks up.” 

“Fine,” Sendra conceded with a sigh. She didn’t want to give up when her destination seemed so close, but she knew Vaalen’s worries were true. She couldn’t complete her task of observing the Conclave if she lost her ears and limbs to frostbite. Besides, to have Vaalen have to carry her frozen corpse in to Haven either was something her pride and dignity would never let her live down. “Let’s break ground and find some wood for a fire. The winds are already chillier up here than I’d like.”

“Push over,” Vaalen whispered with a sly smile.

“I heard that,” Sendra said loudly, conjuring another symbol of blue ice in her palm, ready to rebrand the jesting half-elf with a thick layer of ice.

“Yes ma’am. Sorry ma’aam.”

**A few hours later**

“Stay close to the fire, don’t turn your back to them,” Vaalen whispered quietly as he brought his huge sword to bear in front of him, grasping the hilt with both hands.

“How many are there?” Sendra asked back quietly, her eyes nervously dancing among the shadows in the dark that paced just beyond the light of their small campfire. She too had brought her weapon forward, staff clutched tightly and mind racing as she tried to remember the right words for the proper barrier spell she could use to keep them both safe. Fear, and the constant snarling growls, were doing an unfortunately effective job of clouding her memory.

“Seven, maybe eight. Looks like a full pack,” Vaalen replied. His voice sounded level but Sendra could hear the subtle tension in his throat, and knew he had to be at least somewhat afraid, despite his show of collectedness. 

“I could throw some sparks, or try another bout of lightning,” Sendra offered, though in her mind she doubted she’d land anything of substance if she couldn’t actually see her targets clearly. The wolves it seemed knew that too, and kept just beyond the edge of the light so that only their yellow, ravenous eyes and shaggy outlines glinted under the pale light of the moon, bobbing and weaving in the dark like sickly firelfies.

“Save the mana. We may want to just wait them out. If they keep to the shadows, then we only need to keep the fire going.”

“Are you…sure?” Sendra asked, her voice sounding more terrified than she’d meant to let on. Like the bears, everything in these southern forests seemed bigger, and the wolves were no exception. The animals lurking on the edges of the darkness were huge, easily the size of a mabari if not greater, and their teeth shone like steak knives each time they licked their lips hungrily as they sized up the two huddled elves. 

“It’s what they’ve been doing so far…” Vaalen replied, sounding almost hopeful. “Besides, fighting in the dark only puts us in their element. Unless you know a spell for night vision.”

“I’m afraid not.” Sendra’s heart was pounding, and the smooth shaft of her wooden staff suddenly felt far too flimsy and light to be of use. She raised the knotted end like a pike, working desperately to charge the end with a surge of simple magic she could use to concussively knock back any would be lunge by the predators. Still, as with the bear, her efforts felt utterly useless and she took a step back, almost planting one of her heels in the flames.

“Careful,” Vaalen said to her, his own gaze darting between the circling shadows. “Let’s not cook dinner for them.”

“Would you PLEASE give me a plan here?!” Sendra hissed back, letting her terror swell for a moment. One of the wolves seemed to snarl in response as it sensed her fear.

“They’re just wolves. You know wolves, right? Your clan hunted beside their packs before, I’m sure. Just…focus on what your hunters taught you,” Vaalen offered, trying to sound encouraging, but obviously distracted as two particularly large wolves slunk close and let forth low growls in front of him.

“Wolves in the north don’t come this close to camp fires,” Sendra retorted worriedly, “and they don’t get this big…” 

“Size doesn’t matter. Didn’t your mother teach you that?” Vaalen said with a nervous chuckle.

“Would you SHUT UP with the fucking jokes?!” Sendra hissed back. She was not in the mood for his continued lechery, especially when the threat of being torn to shreds was so close.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-“ he began, but his head jerked up before he could finish the sentence. Sendra noticed his change in focus and tentatively looked away from the group of animals pacing back and forth in front of her to follow his gaze. There, from behind a small boulder they’d earlier used as a wind break to rest for dinner, a humongous wolf loped in to view. It’s massive body was almost twice the size of the other animals and its fur was a dark, jet black that seemed to almost melt in to the surrounding night as if it were part of the darkness itself. Unlike the feral yellow color of the other pack members, the eyes of this wolf were set wider apart, and seemed to glow a bright green coloration. Sendra’s heart sank as she realized what it meant.

“Oh gods,” she whispered, “it must be fade-touched.”

“Yea…” Vaalen whispered back grimly. “That would explain why the pack is being this aggressive. A little demonic influence will do that.”

The huge, dark beast let forth a deep growl that sounded like the rumble of distant thunder, and put Sendra’s hair on edge. The other wolves broke in to excited trots as they continued to circle, whining and snarling in response to the arrival of the huge creature. Sendra could hear their ragged breaths growing quicker and quicker, and realized with sickening clarity they were losing their fear of the flames.

“Vaalen…” she pleaded with rising alarm, “we can’t kill that… I don’t… Vaalen please, we need to make a bigger fire or _do something_. They’re going to attack!” Despite her desire to match his control over the fear of the moment, Sendra heard her voice crack. As much as she was trying, she could feel herself slipping in to blinding panic again.

_Stay in the moment. Don’t fall to pieces again. You HAVE to be strong Sendra!_ she tried telling herself. _You can’t keep leaving him to face all of the dangers alone. You’re supposed to be a Keeper. Remember what you learned, just get a barrier up around you two and remember what Allaveneras taught you._ Sendra could feel her hands shaking in spite of her own thoughts, and turned to see most of the wolves had sensed it too. 

They had found the weaker of the two elves to attack first.

“Sendra. Sendra listen to my voice,” came Vaalen’s words, as if carried in on a distant wind. “Sendra you have to listen to me. I know you’re scared, but I’m not going to let them get you, ok?” His words were softer, gentler, almost as if he were talking to her in a moment of utter privacy and removed from the tension of the moment. Her head began to spin as the fear swelled again in her gut, and she felt the staff wobble for a moment in her grip, threatening to rattle loose. She tried to repeat what Vaalen had just said, but the words didn’t seem real, lost amidst the swirling cacophony of yellow floating eyes in the dark and growling snarls. Four of the wolves stopped their pacing and crouched low, beginning to slink forward in a tentative, cautious crawl towards her. Sendra hurriedly began to dart the staff’s tip back and forth between each one’s approaching shapes, a nervous whimper escaping her lips.

“Sendra…Sendra!” came Vaalen’s voice again, this time sharper and more authoritative. “Listen to me. _Please_.” 

_Gods…I don’t want to be eaten, I don’t want to be ripped to shreds…_ her mind kept repeating over and over, the teeth of the wolves growing larger with each passing moment as their eyes widened with anticipation for the impending feast. Sendra’s legs went numb, and in a fit of uncoordination, she stumbled back again, this time kicking free one of the logs and sending it raking against the back of her legs. She yelped at the sudden shot of burning pain to her calves and stumbled back forward several steps automatically, wandering to within only a few feet of the advancing wolves. They tensed for a moment, freezing in place to reassess the opportunity, and then came leaping forward in to the light with striking speed.

The next few moments passed like a blur as Vaalen’s firelight-lit form pushed past her and grabbed the first wolf by the muzzle with his left hand, squeezing its jaws shut and snapping off the tip of its long tongue before its feet had even touched the ground. Another wolf let out a shrill yelp and craned its neck in agony as its body impaled itself on to the end of his extended sword and began twisting and writhing like a stuck hare on the end of an arrow. The other two wolves landed to either side of Vaalen, now standing in front of Sendra, and spun on the tall elf with ferocious snarls. Caught off guard as he struggled to stay upright with the weight of two struggling animals on each arm already, Vaalen screamed in pain as the teeth of the other two bit in to his legs and wrenched sideways, working to slice deep and cut flesh from bone. Without warning, a fifth wolf leapt over the fire from behind and landed on his back, sending Vaalen crashing forward and on to his hands and knees. In an instant, the three healthy wolves were upon him, tearing at his flailing limbs as he struggled and kicked to drive them away. 

Sendra could see the blood on their jaws, hear Vaalen’s loud, almost piercing screams as he worked to hold the snapping teeth only inches from his throat while they tore at his arms, and smell the raw musk of death and decay hot on the breath of the predators. Held by the shock and speed of the moment, and overcome with a sense of total helplessness, Sendra forgot all about the staff in her hands or the dozens of magical spells she might otherwise use. The third wolf worked quickly to go for Vaalen’s exposed gut while its partners tried to garrote their prey, its teeth grating and raking over his scale chest plate like knives on a ceramic plate. The sound jarred Sendra back in to focus, and she knew she had to help, but her arms felt rooted, useless, helpless. The horror of what she was watching overtook her and she could do little more than mumble an attempt to scream, but no sound came out. 

More wolves came, excitedly barking and snarling, each looking for a way in to the kill, now brazenly ignoring the tiny fire still dancing just behind her. Sendra’s eyes widened as the great black wolf itself strode in to the fire light, moving closer to Vaalen’s struggling form and opening its jaws to expose rows of immense teeth, its green eyes flickering with an almost twisted malice. It wasn’t just hungry like the others Sendra realized, it was enjoying the sounds of agony and pain. It _relished_ his suffering as its pack worked quickly to try to dismember him in to bloody ribbons.

Vaalen screamed again as one of the wolves found its jaws around his left shoulder and bit down hard with a sickening crunching noise. He twisted his right arm free for a moment from the jaws of another wolf and impaled his fingers in to the first wolf’s eyes, causing it to let go with a yelp, but the huge black wolf quickly loped forward in to the space left by the retreating individual and with horrifying speed took Vaalen’s whole chest in its jaws and shook his body like a rag doll. Teeth scratched in to metal and cloth tore as Vaalen was jerked side to side violently for a few seconds and then spat aside like a piece of limp debris. The rest of the pack held back, growling and licking their lips excitedly as they circled, giving due space for the large, green-eyed wolf and its incapacitated victim, eager to see their pack leader seal the kill. 

Vaalen groaned and tried to roll over on to his back, a pool of blood quickly collecting under his sprawled form. His clothes looked more like a butcher’s bag to her than an actual outfit, ragged and torn with huge spreading areas of red as the he-elf bled out from any of a dozen different wounds. His eyes searched around the swirling scene of pacing wolves and dancing shadows before finding hers and locking fast. He looked confused for a moment, and then…apologetic. His face twisted in to a sorrowful expression.

_I’m sorry_ , he mouthed to her, but no words came out. Sendra stood, still frozen in horror, trying to process what had just happened.

_SNAP OUT OF IT SENDRA!_ her mind screamed. _SNAP OUT OF IT AND SAVE HIM!_

“I…I can’t… I’m so…I’m so sorry…” she heard herself stammer before she’d even realized what she was saying.

“I’m so sorry… I can’t do this. I can’t…be…”

_YES YOU CAN! WHAT ARE YOU TELLING HIM?! YOU CAN’T JUST LET HIIM DIE! STOP JUST STANDING HERE AND DO SOMETHING!_ her mind screamed again.

Vaalen simply smiled back to her, a crooked, broken smirk as blood began to trickle down his forehead from a cut somewhere in his hair.

“You can still…run…” he gasped through a broken pair of breaths, almost too faintly to be heard. “There’s going to be…a lot of me to go around…”

As the words left his lips, the black wolf moved to block their line of vision to each other. It looked down at the broken male elf’s face for a moment and put one huge paw on to his chest, pushing his body down in to the dirt under its weight, causing him to gag and spit blood as he tried to yell in pain. It held him there for a moment, watching him squirm in agony, before it turned to stare over its shoulder, its huge green eyes meeting Sendra’s.

It’s sleek, black fur along the face and long, tapered muzzle almost seemed to curl for a moment, twisting upward in to something half way between a snarl and something more. _A smile…_ Sendra realized. _It’s smiling. It’s going to kill him and smile while it does it_.

_It WANTS me to feel helpless…_

The thought hung in her mind for a moment, cutting away the sound of barking and growling around her, Vaalen’s gagging coughs and the quiet pop and crackle of the fire.

_I just don’t know_ , Sendra, came her mother’s voice again, loud and echoing across the edges of her mind. 

_Are you sure you’re really… **good enough** to be a mage yet? _

_Are you sure you’re really **good enough**..._

**_Good enough_ ** _..._

_Aren’t you still kind of clumsy with that…that…whatever you were trying to do last week?_

Abruptly, Sendra’s muscles relaxed and she could feel the world slow in to a half tempo pace. Her hands shifted downward on to the staff, regripping it as she slid her legs in to a widened stance. Sendra closed her eyes for a moment and let out a slow sigh, drawing magic from her core and arms, and focusing in to the outer ends of the wooden weapon. The tip of the staff began to glow a faint blueish-white and hum excitedly as Sendra reopened her eyes and started to mutter the beginnings of a quiet spell. The huge wolf’s lips untwisted, its smile dropping in confusion as it realized its prey was no longer scared. Several of the other wolves stopped their circling and cocked their heads in bewilderment as Sendra’s own face went from one of abject fear to stoic, quiet calm. 

She felt no more fear, no more terror or worry or doubt. In that moment, there was only cold, steeling emotion driving her forward- will.

_I WILL save him, good enough or not._

In an instant, she was almost airborne, her legs driving down and propelling her body forward with an almost blinding speed that even she didn’t know she had. The large wolf had enough time to backstep once as its eyes went wide before the much smaller female elf closed the distance between the two. Its jaws began to open wide in an attempt to leverage a bite, but the nose of Sendra’s knotted staff connected with its forehead with a sharp crack before it could do so much as growl. The impact discharged the pent up magical energy which exploded forth a half second later in a white, hot concussive blast that sounded like the roar of a cannon. For a split second, the whole camp and surrounding trees were illuminated as if in the mid-day sun, rocks and evening frost glinting in the light, each of the wolves frozen in stark surprise. 

Then it was past, and the huge wolf was tumbling backwards and sideways, its head spinning as it let out whimpers of pain in flooding dark. Despite the shockwave, Sendra let the magic wash over and around her, weathering it like a strong breeze and landing dexterously on her feet above Vaalen’s crumpled form. Looking down briefly to check on him, she could see he was staring up at her, his mouth slightly agape in shock. She almost wanted to smile at her expression, but her focus returned to the huge wolf quickly, which came to a skidding stop just at the foot of the huge boulder from which it had first appeared behind.

The beast shook its head and struggled to get to its feet, baring its teeth and letting out a low, angered growl as it fixed Sendra with a look of pure hatred. Sendra noted one of its eyes didn’t open, and the creature seemed to find holding itself steady difficult. The other wolves let out a series of whines, putting their tails between their legs as they moved to back away, but the huge creature snarled loudly and shot the huddled pack a stare of extreme rage. The animals yelped, and stopped their retreat torn by fear for a moment until another loud snarl spurred them in to renewed action. With a series of barks, four wolves broke away from the huddled pack and charged Sendra as the pack leader brought itself fully to its feet and shook its dark coat free of dirt. 

Sendra finished reciting her muttered spell she’d been recounting under her breath and raised the staff point high as the first wolf crossed back in to the light of the dwindling fire. Immediately, a tendril of clear blue ice leapt up from the ground and coiled its away around the fur, dragging the startled animal to a complete stop in the space of only a few seconds. The other wolves, distracted by the cries of distress from their partner turned their heads to observe what was going on even as they continued to rush the mage. Sendra moved forward quickly, already building another burst of magic in to the end of her staff as she spun the end around her in a complete circle, twirling herself like a dancer and striking the first wolf in to the chest before it knew she had moved up. 

Rather than discharge the stored energy again, she kept building it, letting the magic grow whiter and hotter within the wood. The impact seared the skin, and filled the air with the smell of burned fur, while the wolf cried in pain and was sent backwards a few feet with the weight of the blow. The remaining two wolves had by now returned their attention to their prey and tried to engage Sendra from the side, moving to flank her from her left and right at the same time. Their jaws went wide as one dove for her legs and the other leapt high, hoping to find purchase at her neck. Instead, Sendra spun the staff again in her hands and held it diagonally so that each wolf ran an end of the wooden instrument down its own throat. The wolf that got the searing, burning end howled in agony as spittle and blood bubbled from its jaws before it could wrench itself free and go sprinting in to the dark wheezing. The other wolf bit down, trying to wrench the staff free from Sendra’s hands.

Sendra jerked the staff up, trying to dislodge the butt free from the wolf’s jaws, but the creature held tight. Seeing an opening, the huge black wolf charged again with another blood curdling growl, its paws kicking dirt behind it as it raced forward in a blind rage. Sendra looked up and saw the beast coming for her, and knew that she couldn’t get aside and keep the staff at the same time. As if by instinct, she stopped trying to pry the staff free of the smaller wolf’s jaws, and instead spun the haft downward, jerking the wolf’s head awkwardly to the side, using it like a brace to point the end forward. The tip, now so charged with magic the wood was glowing white hot as burning, embers falling away as rivers of orange worked their way down the handle jutted out directly in to the path of the charging alpha. The huge creature spotted Sendra’s ploy too late trying to halt its run even as it impaled the white hot weapon down its gullet.

Sendra released the staff, now caught awkwardly between the jaws of the two wolves and cartwheeled forward to place herself over Vaalen. She knelt down quickly and drew a small layer of protective magic over them both with a small phrase and wave of her hand before looking over her shoulder quickly back to the two animals. The larger wolf’s one eye was stark wide and watering as its huge jaws hung wide open, thrashing from side to side as it tried to dislodge the white hot staff buried down its throat. The other wolf, still clinging stubbornly to the butt was lifted in to the air and shaken about by the much larger black wolf for a few seconds before it too let go and went flying away in to the dark with a surprised yelp. 

The larger creature roared in fear and pain as it tilted its head backward, then raised both forward paws to its face in a desperate attempt to claw the staff free. When that failed, it looked about desperately for anything to aid it but the other wolves had already begun to flee, terrified by the elf mages bright explosions and painful spells, as well as wanting to avoid being crushed underfoot by their much larger pack leader’s thrashing. Fear and suffering clung to the creatures tortured expression as it finally found its gaze back to where Sendra crouched, shielding Vaalen. 

Sendra glared at the beast, the anger at what it had done to Vaalen now blending with the anger at what it had done to itself. What it had made her do…

The creature looked desperately, almost pleadingly to her, as if begging her to stop and pull the staff free so it could run away. For an instant, its green eye shifted back to a pale, yellow color, and Sendra could see the coat flicker to a more drab, grey coloration, revealing the real wolf hidden underneath the blackened projection of the demon’s twisted visage. She felt pity for the animal, because it had probably suffered the entire time it had been possessed, and was suffering doubly now more than any wolf rightly should. 

But the visage did not break, and as quickly as it had flickered, it returned, the coat turning dark, coal black again as the eye narrowed in to sharpened green slit of malice and hatred for what she was causing. The beast tried to howl again in rage, its voice caught as if choking on a bone, and sprinted toward her as its own bubbling blood dripped from its jaws.

Sendra gripped Vaalen tight.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered, and then snapped her fingers, just as she did when making an ember for a fire. The end of her staff, rammed deeply in to the huge wolf’s gut, crackled for an instant, light pouring from its throat and spilling out its open mouth. Then the magic discharged, light, heat and viscera flooding the clearing as the roar of the blast filled her ears. Everything went white as the explosion hit her barrier, and Sendra squeezed Vaalen to her and buried his head in her chest. The ground shook and her skin burned as the heat hit the magics protecting them, cracking the barrier, peeling away its protective layers in the blink of an eye. 

And then the green energy shattered, and Sendra felt herself thrust off her feet, Vaalen ripped from her grasp. She sailed through the air with the shockwave in a moment of pure chaos, confused and upended, desperate to see where Vaalen had gone, and then her head struck a rock, and the world went suddenly dark. 


End file.
